A NOVEL 

JOSEPH  C.  LINCOLN 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


1 


Si 200  1806 


PS 


3533 


"SHAVINGS" 


Books  By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln 

"Shavings"  Extricating  Obadiah 

Mary-'Gusta  Thankful's  Inheritance 

Cap'n  Dan's  Daughter  Mr.  Pratt'*  Patients 
The  Rise  of  Roscoe  Paine  KentKnowles:"Quahaue' 

The  Postmaster  Cap'n  Warren's  Wards 

The  Woman-Haters  The  Depot  Master 

Keziah  Coffin  Our  Village 

Cy  Whittaker's  PUce  Mr.  Pratt 

Cap'n  Eri  Partners  of  the  Tide 

Cape  Cod  Belinda  The  Old  Home  House 


Jed  was  watching  Ruth  .  .  .  looking  off  over  the  , 

<J  f  P'tcrt*      loO 


[Page  3 


"SHAVINGS" 

A  NOVEL 

BY 

JOSEPH  d  LINCOLN 

AUTHOR  OF 
"EXTRICATING  OBADIAH,"  "MARY-'GUSTA,"  ETC.,  ETC 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
H.M.  BRETT 


D.  APPLETON  AND   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 
PAGE 

JED  WAS  WATCHING  RUTH  .    .    .  LOOKING  OFF  OVER 
THE  WATER Frontispiece 

"JED,"  SHE  ASKED,  "WOULD  You  LIKE  TO  BE  AN 
AVIATOR?" 50 

THERE  WAS  A  MOMENTARY  GLIMPSE  OF  A  BRINDLE  CAT 
WITH  A  MACKEREL  CROSSWISE  IN  ITS  MOUTH  .      .     122 

"AND  HE  Is  GOING  TO  TELL?"  SHE  WHISPERED  .     .     292 


2075474 


SHAVINGS" 


CHAPTER  I 

MR.  GABRIEL  BEARSE  was  happy.  The 
nence  given  to  this  statement  is  not  meant  to  imply 
that  Gabriel  was,  as  a  general  rule,  unhappy.  Quite 
the  contrary;  Mr.  Bearse's  disposition  was  a  cheerful  one 
and  the  cares  of  this  world  had  not  rounded  his  plump 
shoulders.  But  Captain  Sam  Hunniwell  had  once  said,  and 
Orham  public  opinion  agreed  with  him,  that  Gabe  Bearse 
was  never  happy  unless  he  was  talking.  Now  here  was 
Gabriel,  not  talking,  but  walking  briskly  along  the  Orham 
main  road,  and  yet  so  distinctly  happy  that  the  happiness 
showed  in  his  gait,  his  manner  and  in  the  excited  glitter  of 
his  watery  eye.  Truly  an  astonishing  condition  of  things 
and  tending,  one  would  say,  to  prove  that  Captain  Sam's 
didactic  remark,  so  long  locally  accepted  and  quoted  as 
gospel  truth,  had  a  flaw  in  its  wisdom  somewhere. 

And  yet  the  flaw  was  but  a  small  one  and  the  explanation 
simple.  Gabriel  was  not  talking  at  that  moment,  it  is 
true,  but  he  was  expecting  to  talk  very  soon,  to  talk  a  great 
deal.  He  had  just  come  into  possession  of  an  item  of 
news  which  would  furnish  his  vocal  machine  gun  with 
ammunition  sufficient  for  wordy  volley  after  volley.  Ga 
briel  was  joyfully  contemplating  peppering  all  Orham 
with  that  bit  of  gossip.  No  wonder  he  was  happy;  no 
wonder  he  hurried  along  the  main  road  like  a  battery  gal 
loping  eagerly  into  action. 


'SHAVINGS" 


He  was  on  his  way  to  the  post  office,  always  the  gossip- 
sharpshooters'  first  line  trench,  when,  turning  the  corner 
where  Nickerson's  Lane  enters  the  main  road,  he  saw 
something  which  caused  him  to  pause,  alter  his  battle-mad 
walk  to  a  slower  one,  then  to  a  saunter,  and  finally  to  a 
halt  altogether.  This  something  was  a  toy  windmill  fas 
tened  to  a  white  picket  fence  and  clattering  cheerfully  as  its 
arms  spun  in  the  brisk,  pleasant  summer  breeze. 

The  little  windmill  was  one  of  a  dozen,  all  fastened  to 
the  top  rail  of  that  fence  and  all  whirling.  Behind  the 
fence,  on  posts,  were  other  and  larger  windmills;  behind 
these,  others  larger  still.  Interspersed  among  the  mills 
were  little  wooden  sailors  swinging  paddles ;  weather  vanes 
in  the  shapes  of  wooden  whales,  swordfish,  ducks,  crows, 
seagulls;  circles  of  little  wooden  profile  sailboats,  made  to 
chase  each  other  'round  and  'round  a  central  post.  All 
of  these  were  painted  in  gay  colors,  or  in  black  and  white, 
and  all  were  in  motion.  The  mills  spun,  the  boats  sailed 
'round  and  'round,  the  sailors  did  vigorous  Indian 
club  exercises  with  their  paddles.  The  grass  in  the  little 
yard  and  the  tall  hollyhocks  in  the  beds  at  its  sides  swayed 
and  bowed  and  nodded.  Beyond,  seen  over  the  edge  of  the 
bluff  and  stretching  to  the  horizon,  the  blue  and  white 
waves  leaped  and  danced  and  sparkled.  As  a  picture  of 
movement  and  color  and  joyful  bustle  the  scene  was  inspir 
ing  ;  children,  viewing  it  for  the  first  time,  almost  invariably 
danced  and  waved  their  arms  in  sympathy.  Summer 
visitors,  loitering  idly  by,  suddenly  became  fired  with  the 
desire  to  set  about  doing  something,  something  energetic. 

Gabriel  Bearse  was  not  a  summer  visitor,  but  a  "native," 
that  is,  an  all-the-year-round  resident  of  Orham,  and,  as 
his  fellow  natives  would  have  cheerfully  testified,  it  took 
much  more  than  windmills  to  arouse  his  energy.  He  had 
not  halted  to  look  at  the  mills.  He  had  stopped  because 


'SHAVINGS" 


the  sight  of  them  recalled  to  his  mind  the  fact  that  the 
maker  of  these  mills  was  a  friend  of  one  of  the  men  most 
concerned  in  his  brand  new  news  item.  It  was  possible, 
barely  possible,  that  here  was  an  opportunity  to  learn  just 
a  little  more,  to  obtain  an  additional  clip  of  cartridges  be 
fore  opening  fire  on  the  crowd  at  the  post  office.  Certainly 
it  might  be  worth  trying,  particularly  as  the  afternoon  mail 
would  not  be  ready  for  another  hour,  even  if  the  train 
was  on  time. 

At  the  rear  of  the  little  yard,  and  situated  perhaps  fifty 
feet  from  the  edge  of  the  high  sand  bluff  leading  down 
precipitously  to  the  beach,  was  a  shingled  building,  white 
washed,  and  with  a  door,  painted  green,  and  four  win 
dows  on  the  side  toward  the  road.  A  clamshell  walk  led 
from  the  gate  to  the  doors.  Over  the  door  was 
a  sign,  very  neatly  lettered,  as  follows:  "J.  EDGAR  W. 
WINSLOW.  MILLS  FOR  SALE."  In  the  lot  next  to 
that,  where  the  little  shop  stood,  was  a  small,  old-fashioned 
story-and-a-half  Cape  Cod  house,  painted  a  speckless  white, 
with  vivid  green  blinds.  The  blinds  were  shut  now,  for 
the  house  was  unoccupied.  House  and  shop  and  both 
yards  were  neat  and  clean  as  a  New  England  kitchen. 

Gabriel  Bearse,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  opened  the 
gate  in  the  picket  fence  and  walked  along  the  clamshell 
walk  to  the  shop  door.  Opening  the  door,  he  entered,  a 
bell  attached  to  the  top  of  the  door  jingling  as  he  did  so. 
The  room  which  Mr.  Bearse  entered  was  crowded  from 
floor  to  ceiling,  save  for  a  narrow  passage,  with  hit-or- 
miss  stacks  of  the  wyooden  toys  evidently  finished  and  ready 
for  shipment.  Threading  his  way  between  the  heaps  of 
sailors,  mills,  vanes  and  boats,  Gabriel  came  to  a  door 
evidently  leading  to  another  room.  There  was  a  sign 
tacked  to  this  door,  which  read,  "PRIVATE,"  but  Mr. 


"SHAVINGS" 


Bearse  did  not  let  that  trouble  him.  He  pushed  the  door 
open. 

The  second  room  was  evidently  the  work-shop.  There 
were  a  circular  saw  and  a  turning  lathe,  with  the 
needful  belts,  and  a  small  electric  motor  to  furnish 
power.  Also  there  were  piles  of  lumber,  shelves  of  paint 
pots  and  brushes,  many  shavings  and  much  sawdust.  And, 
standing  beside  a  dilapidated  chair  from  which  he  had 
evidently  risen  at  the  sound  of  the  door  bell,  with  a  dripping 
paint  brush  in  one  hand  and  a  wooden  sailor  in  the  other, 
there  was  a  man.  When  he  saw  who  his  visitor  was  he 
sat  down  again. 

He  was  a  tall  nan  and,  as  the  chair  he  sat  in  was  a  low 
one  and  the  heels  of  his  large  shoes  were  hooked  over  its 
lower  rounds,  his  knees  and  shoulders  were  close  together 
when  he  bent  over  his  work.  He  was  a  thin  man  and  his 
trousers  hung  about  his  ankles  like  a  loose  sail  on  a  yard. 
His  hair  was  thick  and  plentiful,  a  brown  sprinkled  with 
gray  at  the  temples.  His  face  was  smooth-shaven,  with 
wrinkles  at  the  corners  of  the  eyes  and  mouth.  He  wore 
spectacles  perched  at  the  very  end  of  his  nose,  and  looked 
down  over  rather  than  through  them  as  he  dipped  the 
brush  in  the  can  of  paint  beside  him  on  the  floor. 

"Hello,  Shavin's,"  hailed  Mr.  Bearse,  blithely. 

The  tall  man  applied  the  brush  to  the  nude  pine  legs 
of  the  wooden  sailor.  One  side  of  those  legs  were  modestly 
covered  forthwith  by  a  pair  of  sky-blue  breeches.  The 
artist  regarded  the  breeches  dreamily.  Then  he  said: 

"Hello,  Gab." 

His  voice  was  a  drawl,  very  deliberate,  very  quiet, 
rather  soft  and  pleasant.  But  Mr.  Bearse  was  not  pleased. 

"Don't  call  me  that,"  he  snapped. 

The  brush  was  again  dipped  in  the  paint  pot  and  the  rear 


"SHAVINGS" 


elevation  of  the  pine  sailor  became  sky-blue  like  the  other 
side  of  him.  Then  the  tall  man  asked : 

"Call  you  what?" 

"Gab.  That's  a  dwl  of  a  name  to  call  anybody.  Last 
time  I  was  in  here  Cap'n  Sam  Hunniwell  heard  you  call 
me  that  and  I  cal'lated  he'd  die  laughin'.  Seemed  to  cal'late 
there  was  somethin'  specially  dum  funny  about  it.  /  don't 
call  it  funny.  Say,  speakin'  of  Cap'n  Sam,  have  you  heard 
the  news  about  him  ?" 

He  asked  the  question  eagerly,  because  it  was  a  part  of 
what  he  came  there  to  ask.  His  eagerness  was  not  con 
tagious.  The  man  on  the  chair  put  down  the  blue  brush, 
took  up  a  fresh  one,  dipped  it  in  another  paint  pot  and 
proceeded  to  garb  another  section  of  his  sailor  in  a  spot 
less  white  shirt,  Mr.  Bearse  grew  impatient. 

"Have  you  heard  the  news  about  Cap'n  Sam?"  he  re 
peated.  "Say,  Shavin's,  have  you?" 

The  painting  went  serenely  on,  but  the  painter  answered. 

"Well,  Gab,"  he  drawled,    "I " 

"Don't  call  me  Gab,  I  tell  you.     'Tain't  my  name." 

"Sho!     Ain't  it?" 

"You  know  well  enough 'tain't.  My  name's  Gabriel.  Call 
me  that — or  Gabe.  I  don't  like  to  be  called  out  of  my  name. 
But  say,  Shavin's " 

"Well,  Gab,  say  it." 

"Look  here,  Jed  Winslow,  do  you  hear  me?" 

"Yes,  hear  you  fust  rate,  Gabe — now." 

Mr.  Bearse's  understanding  was  not  easily  penetrated; 
a  hint  usually  glanced  from  it  like  a  piece  of  soap  from  a 
slanting  cellar  door,  but  this  time  the  speaker's  tone  and 
the  emphasis  on  the  "now"  made  a  slight  dent.  Gabriel's 
eyes  opened. 

"Huh?"  he  grunted  in  astonishment,  as  if  the  possibility 


"SHAVINGS" 


had  never  until  that  moment  occured  to  him.  "Why,  say, 
Jed,  don't  you  like  to  be  called  'Shavin's'  ?" 

No  answer.  A  blue  collar  was  added  to  the  white 
shirt  of  the  sailor. 

"Don't  you,  Jed?"  repeated  Gabe. 

Mr.  Winslow's  gaze  was  lifted  from  his  work  and  his 
eyes  turned  momentarily  in  the  direction  of  his  caller. 

"Gabe,"  he  drawled,  "did  you  ever  hear  about  the  feller 
that  was  born  stone  deef  and  the  Doxology  ?" 

"Eh?    What—         No.,  I  never  heard  it." 

The  eyes  turned  back  to  the  wooden  sailor  and  Mr.  Win- 
slow  chose  another  brush. 

"Neither  did  he,"  he  observed,  and  began  to  whistle 
what  sounded  like  a  dirge. 

Mr.  Bearse  stared  at  him  for  at  least  a  minute.  Then 
he  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  by  Judas!"  he  exclaimed.  "I— I— I  snum  if  I 
don't  think  you  be  crazy,  same  as  some  folks  say  you  are! 
What  in  the  nation  has — has  your  name  got  to  do  with  a 
deef  man  and  the  Doxology?" 

"Eh?  ...  Oh,  nothin'." 

"Then  what  did  you  bust  loose  and  tell  me  about  'em 
for  ?  They  wan't  any  of  my  business,  was  they  ?" 

"No-o.     That's  why  I  spoke  of  'em." 

"What?  You  spoke  of  'em  'cause  they  wan't  any  of  my 
business  ?" 

"Ye-es  ...  I  thought  maybe —  He  paused,  turned 

the  sailor  over  in  his  hand,  whistled  a  few  more  bars  of  the 
dirge  and  then  finished  his  sentence.  "I  thought  maybe  you 
might  like  to  ask  questions  about  'em,"  he  concluded. 

Mr.  Bearse  stared  suspiciously  at  his  companion,  swal 
lowed  several  times  and,  between  swallows,  started  to  speak, 
but  each  time  gave  it  up.  Mr.  Winslow  appeared  quite 
oblivious  of  the  stare.  His  brushes  gave  the  wooden  sailor 


"SHAVINGS" 


black  hair,  eyes  and  brows,  and  an  engaging  crimson  sfhile. 
When  Gabriel  did  speak  it  was  not  concerning  names. 

"Say,  Jed,"  he  cried,  "have  you  heard  about  Cap'n  Sam 
Hunniwell  ?  'Bout  his  bein'  put  on  the  Exemption  Board?" 

His  companion  went  on  whistling,  but  he  nodded. 

"Um-hm,"  grunted  Gabe,  grudgingly.  "I  presumed 
likely  you  would  hear;  he  told  you  himself,  I  cal'late.  Seth 
Baker  said  he  see  him  come  in  here  night  afore  last  and  I 
suppose  that's  when  he  told  you.  Didn't  say  nothin'  else, 
did  he?"  he  added,  eagerly. 

Again  Mr.  Winslow  nodded. 

"Did  he?    Did  he?    What  else  did  he  say?" 

The  tall  man  seemed  to  consider. 

"Wrel!,"  he  drawled,  at  length,  "seems  to  me  I  remember 
him  sayin' — sayin'— 

"Yes?     Yes?    What  did  he  say?" 

"Well — er — seems  to  me  he  said  good  night  just  afore 
he  went  Lome." 

The  disappointed  Gabriel  lost  patience.  "Oh,  you  divilish 
fool  head !"  he  exclaimed,  disgustedly.  "Look  here,  Jed 
Winslow,  talk  sense  for  a  minute,  if  you  can,  won't  you? 
I've  just  heard  somethin'  that's  goin'  to  make  a  big  row  in 
this  town  and  it's  got  to  do  with  Cap'n  Sam's  bein'  app'inted 
on  that  Gov'ment  Exemption  Board  for  drafted  folks.  If 
you'd  heard  Phineas  Babbitt  goin'  on  the  way  I  done,  I  guess 
likely  you'd  have  been  interested." 

It  was  plain  that,  for  the  first  time  since  his  caller  in 
truded  upon  his  privacy,  the  maker  of  mills  and  sailors  was 
interested.  He  did  not  put  down  his  brush,  but  he  turned 
his  head  to  look  and  listen.  Bearse,  pleased  with  this  symp 
tom  of  attention,  went  on. 

"I  was  just  into  Phineas'  store,"  he  said,  "and  he  was 
there,  so  I  had  a  chance  to  talk  with  him.  He's  been  up  to 
Boston  and  never  got  back  till  this  afternoon,  so  I  cal'lated 


8  "SHAVINGS" 


maybe  he  hadn't  heard  about  Cap'n  Sam's  app'intment.  And 
I  knew,  too,  how  he  does  hate  the  Cap'n;  ain't  had  nothin' 
but  cuss  words  and  such  names  for  him  ever  since  Sam 
done  him  out  of  gettin'  the  postmaster's  job.  Pretty  mean 
trick,  some  folks  call  it,  but " 

Mr.  Winslow  interrupted;  his  drawl  was  a  trifle  less 
evident. 

"Congressman  Taylor  asked  Sam  for  the  truth  regardin' 
Phineas  and  a  certain  matter,"  he  said.  "Sam  told  the 
truth,  that's  all." 

"Well,  maybe  that's  so,  but  does  tellin'  the  truth  about 
folks  make  'em  love  you?  I  don't  know  as  it  does." 

Winslow  appeared  to  meditate. 

"No-o,"  he  observed,  thoughtfully,  "I  don't  suppose 
you  do." 

"No,  I  ...  Eh?  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  Look 
here,  Jed  Winslow,  if " 

Jed  held  up  a  big  hand.  "There,  there,  Gabe,"  he  sug 
gested,  mildly.  "Let's  hear  about  Sam  and  Phin  Babbitt. 
What  was  Phineas  goin'  on  about  when  you  was  in  his 
store?" 

Mr.  Bearse  forgot  personal  grievance  in  his  eagerness  to 
tell  the  story. 

"Why,"  he  began,  "you  see,  'twas  like  this:  'Twas  all 
on  account  of  Leander.  Leander's  been  drafted.  You 
know  that,  of  course?" 

Jed  nodded.  Leander  Babbitt  was  the  son  of  Phineas 
Babbitt,  Orham's  dealer  in  hardware  and  lumber  and  a 
leading  political  boss.  Between  Babbitt,  Senior,  and  Captain 
Sam  Hunniwell,  the  latter  President  of  the  Orham  National 
Bank  and  also  a  vigorous  politician,  the  dislike  had  always 
been  strong.  Since  the  affair  of  the  postmastership  it  had 
become,  on  Babbitt's  part,  an  intense  hatred.  During  the 
week  just  past  young  Babbitt's  name  had  been  drawn  as 


'SHAVINGS" 


one  of  Orham's  quota  for  the  new  National  Army.  The 
village  was  still  talking  of  the  draft  when  the  news  came 
that  Captain  Hunniwell  had  been  selected  as  a  member  of 
the  Exemption  Board  for  the  district,  the  Board  which  was 
to  hold  its  sessions  at  Ostable  and  listen  to  the  pleas  of  those 
desiring  to  be  excused  from  service.  Not  all  of  Orham 
knew  this  as  yet.  Jed  Winslow  had  heard  it,  from  Captain 
Sam  himself.  Gabe  Bearse  had  heard  it  because  he  made 
it  his  business  to  hear  everything,  whether  it  concerned  him 
or  not — preferably  not. 

The  war  had  come  to  Orham  with  the  unbelievable  un 
reality  with  which  it  had  come  to  the  great  mass  of  the 
country.  Ever  since  the  news  of  the  descent  of  von  Kluck's 
hordes  upon  devoted  Belgium,  in  the  fall  of  1914,  the  death 
grapple  in  Europe  had,  of  course,  been  the  principal  topic 
of  discussion  at  the  post  office  and  around  the  whist  tables 
at  the  Setuckit  Club,  where  ancient  and  retired  mariners 
met  and  pounded  their  own  and  each  other's  knees  while 
they  expressed  sulphurous  opinions  concerning  the  attitude 
of  the  President  and  Congress.  These  opinions  were,  as  a 
usual  thing,  guided  by  the  fact  of  their  holders'  allegiance 
to  one  or  the  other  of  the  great  political  parties.  Captain 
Sam  Hunniwell,  a  lifelong  and  ardent  Republican,  with  a 
temper  as  peppery  as  the  chile  con  came  upon  which,  when 
commander  of  a  steam  freighter  trading  with  Mexico,  he 
had  feasted  so  often — Captain  Sam  would  have  hoisted  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  to  the  masthead  the  day  the  Lusitania 
sank  and  put  to  sea  in  a  dory,  if  need  be,  and  armed  only 
with  a  shotgun,  to  avenge  that  outrage.  To  hear  Captain 
Sam  orate  concerning  the  neglect  of  duty  of  which  he  con 
sidered  the  United  States  government  guilty  was  an  ex 
perience,  interesting  or  shocking,  according  to  the  drift  of 
one's  political  or  religious  creed. 

Phineas  Babbitt,  on  the  contrary,  had  at  first  upheld  the 


io  "SHAVINGS" 


policy  of  strict  neutrality.  "What  business  is  it  of  ours  if 
them  furriners  take  to  slaughterin'  themselves?"  he  wanted 
to  know.  He  hotly  declared  the  Lusitania  victims  plaguey 
fools  who  knew  what  they  were  riskin'  when  they  sailed  and 
had  got  just  what  was  comin'  to  'em — that  is,  he  was  pro 
claiming  it  when  Captain  Sam  heard  him ;  after  that  the 
captain  issued  a  proclamation  of  his  own  and  was  proceed 
ing'  to  follow  words  with  deeds.  The  affair  ended  by 
mutual  acquaintances  leading  Captain  Sam  from  the  Babbitt 
Hardware  Company's  store,  the  captain  rumbling  like  a 
volcano  and,  to  follow  up  the  simile,  still  emitting  verbal 
brimstone  and  molten  lava,  while  Mr.  Babbitt,  entrenched 
behind  his  counter,  with  a  monkey  wrench  in  his  hand, 
dared  his  adversary  to  lay  hands  on  a  law-abiding  citizen. 

When  the  Kaiser  and  von  Tirpitz  issued  their  final  ulti 
matum,  however,  and  the  President  called  America  to  arms, 
Phineas,  in  company  with  others  of  his  breed,  appeared  to 
have  experienced  a  change  of  heart.  At  all  events  he  kept 
his  anti-war  opinions  to  himself  and,  except  that  his  hatred 
for  the  captain  was  more  virulent  than  ever  since  the  affair 
of  the  postmastership,  he  found  little  fault  with  the  war 
preparations  in  the  village,  the  organizing  of  a  Home  Guard, 
the  raising  of  funds  for  a  new  flag  and  flagpole  and  the 
recruiting  meeting  in  the  town  hall. 

At  that  meeting  a  half  dozen  of  Orham's  best  young  fel 
lows  had  expressed  their  desire  to  fight  for  Uncle  Sam. 
The  Orham  band — minus  its  first  cornet,  who  was  himself 
one  of  the  volunteers — had  serenaded  them  at  the  railway 
station  and  the  Congregational  minister  and  Lawyer  Pound- 
berry  of  the  Board  of  Selectmen  had  made  speeches.  Cap 
tain  Sam  Hunniwell,  being  called  upon  to  say  a  few  words, 
had  said  a  few — perhaps,  considering  the  feelings  of  the 
minister  and  the  feminine  members  of  his  flock  present, 
it  is  well  they  were  not  more  numerous. 


"SHAVINGS"  ii 


"Good  luck  to  you,  boys,"  said  Captain  Sam.  "I  wish 
to  the  Almighty  I  was  young  enough  to  go  with  you.  And 
say,  if  you  see  that  Kaiser  anywheres  afloat  or  ashore  give 
him  particular  merry  hell  for  me,  will  you?1' 

And  then,  a  little  later,  came  the  n-ews  that  the  con 
scription  bill  had  become  a  law  and  that  the  draft  was  to 
be  a  reality.  And  with  that  news  the  war  itself  became  a 
little  more  real.  And,  suddenly,  Phineas  Babbitt,  realizing 
that  his  son,  Leander,  was  twenty-five  years  old  and,  there 
fore,  within  the  limits  of  the  draft  age,  became  once  more 
an  ardent,  if  a  little  more  careful,  conscientious  objector. 

He  discovered  that  the  war  was  a  profiteering  enterprise 
engineered  by  capital  and  greed  for  the  exploiting  of  labor 
and  the  common  people.  Whenever  he  thought  it  safe  to 
do  so  he  aired  these  opinions  and,  as  there  were  a  few  of 
what  Captain  Hunniwell  called  "yellow-backed  swabs"  in 
Orham  or  its  neighborhood,  he  occasionally  had  sympathetic 
listeners.  Phineas,  it  is  only  fair  to  say,  had  never  hereto 
fore  shown  any  marked  interest  in  labor  except  to  get  as 
much  of  it  for  as  little  money  as  possible.  If  his  son,  Lean 
der,  shared  his  father's  opinions,  he  did  not  express  them. 
In  fact  he  said  very  little,  working  steadily  in  the  store  all 
day  and  appearing  to  have  something  on  his  mind.  Most 
people  liked  Leander. 

Then  came  the  draft  and  Leander  was  drafted.  He  said 
very  little  about  it,  but  his  father  said  a  great  deal.  The 
boy  should  not  go;  the  affair  was  an  outrage.  Leander 
wasn't  strong,  anyway;  besides,  wasn't  he  his  father's 
principal  support?  He  couldn't  be  spared,  that's  all  there 
was  about  it,  and  he  shouldn't  be.  There  was  going  to  be 
an  Exemption  Board,  wasn't  there?  All  right — just  wait 
until  he,  Phineas,  went  before  that  board.  He  hadn't  been 
in  politics  all  these  years  for  nothin'.  Sam  Hunniwell 
hadn't  got  all  the  pull  there  was  in  the  county. 


12  "SHAVINGS" 


And  then  Captain  Sam  was  appointed  a  member  of  that 
very  board.  He  had  dropped  in  at  the  windmill  shop  the 
very  evening  when  he  decided  to  accept  and  told  Jed  Win- 
slow  all  about  it.  There  never  were  two  people  more  unlike 
than  Sam  Hunniwell  and  Jed  Winslow,  but  they  had  been 
fast  friends  since  boyhood.  Jed  knew  that  Phineas  Babbitt 
had  been  on  a  trip  to  Boston  and,  therefore,  had  not  heard 
of  the  captain's  appointment.  Now,  according  to  Gabriel 
Bearse,  he  had  returned  and  had  heard  of  it,  and  ac 
cording  to  Bearse's  excited  statement  he  had  "gone  on" 
about  it. 

"Leander's  been  drafted,"  repeated  Gabe.  "And  that  was 
bad  enough  for  Phineas,  he  bein'  down  on  the  war,  any 
how.  But  he's  been  cal'latin',  I  cal'late,  to  use  his  political 
pull  to  get  Leander  exempted  off.  Nine  boards  out  of  ten, 
if  they'd  had  a  man  from  Orham  on  'em,  would  have  gone 
by  what  that  man  said  in  a  case  like  Leander's.  And 
Phineas,  he  was  movin'  heavens  and  earth  to  get  one  of 
his  friends  put  on  as  the  right  Orham  man.  And  now — 
now,  by  godfreys  domino,  they've  put  on  the  one  man  that 
Phin  can't  influence,  that  hates  Phin  worse  than  a  cat  hates 
a  swim.  Oh,  you  ought  to  heard  Phineas  go  on  when  I 
told  him.  He'd  just  got  off  the  train,  as  you  might  say,  so 
nobody'd  had  a  chance  to  tell  him.  I  was  the  fust  one,  you 
see.  So " 

"Was  Leander  there?" 

"No,  he  wan't.  There  wan't  nobody  in  the  store  but 
Susie  Ellis,  that  keeps  the  books  there  now,  and  Abner 
Burgess's  boy,  that  runs  errands  and  waits  on  folks  when 
everybody  else  is  busy.  That  was  a  funny  thing,  too — that 
about  Leander's  not  bein'  there.  Susie  said  she  hadn't  seen 
him  since  just  after  breakfast  time,  half  past  seven  o'clock 
or  so,  and  when  she  telephoned  the  Babbitt  house  it  turned 


'SHAVINGS"  13 


out  he  hadn't  been  there,  neither.  Had  his  breakfast  and 
went  out,  he  did,  and  that's  all  his  step-ma  knew  about  him. 
But  Phineas,  he.  ...  Eh  ?  Ain't  that  the  bell  ?  Customer, 
I  presume  likely.  Want  me  to  go  see  who  'tis,  Shavin's— 
Jed,  I  mean?" 


CHAPTER  II 

BUT  the  person  who  had  entered  the  outer  shop  saved 
Mr.  Bearse  the  trouble.  He,  too,  disregarded  the 
"Private"  sign  on  the  door  of  the  inner  room.  Before 
Gabriel  could  reach  it  that  door  was  thrown  open  and  the 
newcomer  entered.  He  was  a  big  man,  gray-mustached, 
with  hair  a  grizzled  red,  and  with  blue  eyes  set  in  a  florid 
face.  The  hand  which  had  opened  the  door  looked  big  and 
powerful  enough  to  have  knocked  a  hole  in  it,  if  such  a  pro 
cedure  had  been  necessary.  And  its  owner  looked  quite 
capable  of  doing  it,  if  he  deemed  it  necessary,  in  fact  he 
looked  as  if  he  would  rather  have  enjoyed  it.  H  swept  into 
the  room  like  a  northwest  breeze,  and  two  bundles  of 
wooden  strips,  cut  to  the  size  of  mill  arms,  clattered  to  the 
floor  as  he  did  so. 

"Hello,  Jed!"  he  hailed,  in  a  voice  which  measured  up 
to  the  rest  of  him.  Then,  noticing  Mr.  Bearse  for  the  first 
time,  he  added:  "Hello,  Gabe,  what  are  you  doin'  here?" 

Gabriel  hastened  to  explain.  His  habitual  desire  to  please 
and  humor  each  person  he  met — each  person  of  consequence, 
that  is;  very  poor  people  or  village  eccentrics  like  Jed 
Winslow  did  not  much  matter,  of  course — was  in  this  case 
augmented  by  a  particular  desire  to  please  Captain  Sam 
Hunniwell.  Captain  Sam,  being  one  of  Orham's  most  in 
fluential  men,  was  not,  in  Mr.  Bearse's  estimation,  at  all  the 
sort  of  person  whom  it  was  advisable  to  displease.  He 
might — and  did — talk  disparagingly  of  him  behind  his  back, 
as  he  did  behind  the  back  of  every  one  else,  but  he  smiled 
humbly  and  spoke  softly  in  his  presence.  The  conscious- 

14 


"SHAVINGS"  15 


ness  of  having  just  been  talking  of  him,  however,  of  having 
visited  that  shop  for  the  express  purpose  of  talking  about 
him,  made  the  explaining  process  a  trifle  embarrassing. 

"Oh,  howd'ye  do,  howd'ye  do,  Cap'n  Hunniwell?"  stam 
mered  Gabriel.  "Nice  day,  ain't  it,  sir?  Yes,  sir,  'tis  a  nice 
day.  I  was  just — er — that  is,  I  just  run  in  to  see  Shavin's 
here;  to  make  a  little  call,  you  know.  We  was  just  settin' 
here  talkin',  wan't  we,  Shavin's — Jed,  I  mean?" 

Mr.  Winslow  stood  his  completed  sailor  man  in  a  rack 
to  dry. 

"Ya-as,"  he  drawled,  solemnly,  "that  was  about  it,  I 
guess.  Have  a  chair,  Sam,  won't  you  ?  .  .  .  That  was  about 
it,  we  was  sittin'  and  talkin'  ...  I  was  sittin'  and  Gab — 
Gabe,  I  mean — was  talkin'." 

Captain  Sam  chuckled.  As  Winslow  and  Mr.  Bearse 
were  occupying  the  only  two  chairs  in  the  room  he  accepted 
the  invitation  in  its  broad  sense  and,  turning  an  empty  box 
upon  end,  sat  down  on  that. 

"So  Gabe  was  talkin',  eh?"  he  repeated.  "Well,  that's 
singular.  How'd  that  happen,  Gabe  ?" 

Mr.  Bearse  looked  rather  foolish.  "Oh,  we  was  just — 
just  talkin'  about — er — this  and  that,"  he  said,  hastily.  "Just 
this  and  that,  nothin'  partic'lar.  Cal'late  I'll  have  to  be 
runnin'  along  now,  Jed." 

Jed  Winslow  selected  a  new  and  unpainted  sailor  from 
the  pile  near  him.  He  eyed  it  dreamily. 

"Well,  Gabe,"  he  observed,  "if  you  must,  you  must,  I 
suppose.  Seems  to  me  you're  leavin'  at  the  most  interestin' 
time.  We've  been  talkin'  about  this  and  that,  same  as  you 
say,  and  now  you're  leavin'  just  as  'this'  has  got  here. 
Maybe  if  you  wait — wait — a " 

The  sentence  died  away  into  nothingness.  He  had  taken 
up  the  brush  which  he  used  for  the  blue  paint.  There  was 


16  "SHAVINGS" 


a  loose  bristle  in  it.  He  pulled  this  out  and  one  or  two 
more  came  with  it. 

"Hu-um !"  he  mused,  absently. 

Captain  Sam  was  tired  of  waiting. 

"Come,  finish  her  out,  Jed — finish  her  out,"  he  urged. 
"What's  the  rest  of  it?" 

"I  cal'late  I'll  run  along  now,"  said  Mr.  Bearse,  nervously 
moving  toward  the  door. 

"Hold  on  a  minute,"  commanded  the  captain.  "Jed 
hadn't  finished  what  he  was  sayin'  to  you  He  generally 
talks  like  one  of  those  continued-in-our-next  yarns  in  the 
magazines.  Give  us  the  September  installment,  Jed — come." 

Mr.  Winslow  smiled,  a  slow,  whimsical  smile  that  lit  up 
his  lean,  brown  face  and  then  passed  away  as  slowly  as  it 
had  come,  lingering  for  an  instant  at  one  corner  of  his 
mouth. 

"Oh,  I  was  just  tellin'  Gabe  that  the  'this*  he  was  talkin' 
about  was  here  now,"  he  said,  "and  that  maybe  if  he  waited 
a  space  the  'that'  would  come,  too.  Seems  to  me  if  I  was 
you,  Gabe,  I'd " 

But  Mr.  Bearse  had  gone. 

Captain  Hunniwell  snorted.  "Humph!"  he  said;  "I 
judge  likely  I'm  the  'this'  you  and  that  gas  hag  have  been 
talkin'  about.  Who's  the  'that'  ?" 

His  companion  was  gazing  absently  at  the  door  throngh 
which  Gabriel  had  made  his  hurried  departure.  After  gaz 
ing  at  it  in  silence  for  a  moment,  he  rose  from  the  chair, 
unfolding  section  by  section  like  a  pocket  rule,  and,  crossing 
the  room,  opened  the  door  and  took  from  its  other  side  the 
lettered  sign  "Private"  which  had  hung  there.  Then,  with 
tacks  and  a  hammer,  he  proceeded  to  affix  the  placard  to 
the  inner  side  of  the  door,  that  facing  the  room  where  he 
and  Captain  Sam  were.  The  captain  regarded  this  opera 
tion  with  huge  astonishment. 


"SHAVINGS"  17 


"Gracious  king!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  in  thunder  are 
you  doin1  that  for?  This  is  the  private  room  in  here, 
ain't  it?" 

Mr.  Winslow,  returning  to  his  chair,  nodded. 

"Ya-as,"  he  admitted,  "that's  why  I'm  puttin'  the  'Private' 
sign  on  this  side  of  the.  door." 

"Yes,  but Why,  confound  it,  anybody  who  sees  it 

there  will  think  it  is  the  other  room  that's  private,  won't 
they?" 

Jed  nodded.     "I'm  in  hopes  they  will,"  he  said. 

"You're  in  hopes  they  will !    Why  ?" 

"  'Cause  if  Gabe  Bearse  thinks  that  room's  private  and 
that  he  don't  belong  there  he'll  be  sartin  sure  to  go  there ; 
then  maybe  he'll  give  me  a  rest." 

He  selected  a  new  brush  and  went  on  with  his  painting. 
Captain  Hunniwell  laughed  heartily.  Then,  all  at  once, 
his  laughter  ceased  and  his  face  assumed  a  troubled  ex 
pression. 

"Jed,"  he  ordered,  "leave  off  daubin'  at  that  wooden 
doll  baby  for  a  minute,  will  you?  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
I  want  to  ask  you  what  you  think  I'd  better  do.  I  know 

what  Gab  Bearse Much  obliged  for  that  name,  Jed; 

'Gab's'  the  best  name  on  earth  for  that  critter — I  know  what 
Gab  came  in  here  to  talk  about.  'Twas  about  me  and  my 
bein'  put  on  the  Exemption  Board,  of  course.  That  was  it, 
wan't  it  ?  Um-hm,  I  knew  'twas.  I  was  the  'this'  in  his  'this 
and  that.'  And  Phin  Babbitt  was  the  'that' ;  I'll  bet  on  it 
Am  I  right?" 

Winslow  nodded. 

"Sure  thing!"  continued  the  captain.  "Well,  there  'tis. 
What  am  I  goin'  to  do  ?  When  they  wanted  me  to  take  the 
job  in  the  first  place  I  kind  of  hesitated.  You  know  I  did. 
'Twas  bound  to  be  one  of  those  thankless  sort  of  jobs  that 
get  a  feller  into  trouble,  bound  to  be.  And  yet — and  yet—- 


i8  "SHAVINGS" 


well,  somebody  has  to  take  those  kind  of  jobs.  And  a  man 
hadn't  ought  to  talk  all  the  time  about  how  he  wishes  he 
could  do  somethin'  to  help  his  country,  and  then  lay  down 
and  quit  on  the  first  chance  that  comes  his  way,  just  'cause 
that  chance  ain't — ain't  eatin'  up  all  the  pie  in  the  state  so 
the  Germans  can't  get  it,  or  somethin'  like  that.  Ain't 
that  so?" 

"Seems  so  to  me,  Sam." 

"Yes.  Well,  so  I  said  I'd  take  my  Exemption  Board 
job.  But  when  I  said  I'd  accept  it,  it  didn't  run  across 
my  mind  that  Leander  Babbitt  was  liable  to  be  drafted,  first 
crack  out  of  the  box.  Now  he  is  drafted,  and,  if  I  know 
Phin  Babbitt,  the  old  man  will  be  down  on  us  Board  fellers 
the  first  thing  to  get  the  boy  exempted.  And,  I  bein'  on  the 
Board  and  hailin'  from  his  own  town,  Orham  here,  it  would 
naturally  be  to  me  that  he'd  come  first.  Eh  ?  That's  what 
he'd  naturally  do,  ain't  it?" 

His  friend  nodded  once  more.  Captain  Sam  lost  pa 
tience. 

"Gracious  king !"  he  exclaimed.  "Jed  Winslow,  for  thun 
der  sakes  say  somethin' !  Don't  set  there  bobbin'  your 
head  up  and  down  like  one  of  those  wound-up  images  in  a 
Christmas-time  store  window.  I  ask  you  if  that  ain't  what 
Phin  Babbitt  would  do?  What  would  you  do  if  you  was 
in  his  shoes?" 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin. 

"Step  out  of  'em,  I  guess  likely,"  he  drawled. 

"Humph!  Yes — well,  any  self-respectin'  person  would 
do  that,  even  if  he  had  to  go  barefooted  the  rest  of  his  life. 
But,  what  I'm  gettin'  at  is  this:  Babbitt'll  come  to  me 
orderin'  me  to  get  Leander  exempted.  And  what'll  I  say  ?" 

Winslow  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"Seems  to  me,  Sam,"  he  answered,  "that  if  that  thing 
happened  there'd  be  only  one  thing  to  say.  You'd  just  have 


"SHAVINGS"  19 


to  tell  him  that  you'd  listen  to  his  reasons  and  if  they  seemed, 
good  enough  to  kt  the  boy  off,  for  your  part  you'd  vote 
to  let  him  off.  If  they  didn't  seem  good  enough — why " 

"Well— what?" 

"Why,  then  Leander'd  have  to  go  to  war  and  his  dad 
could  go  to " 

"Eh  ?  Go  on.  I  want  to  hear  you  say  it.  Where  could 
he  go?" 

Jed  wiped  the  surplus  paint  from  his  brush  on  the  edge 
of  the  can. 

"To  sellin'  hardware,"  he  concluded,  gravely,  but  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

Captain  Sam  sniffed,  perhaps  in  disappointment.  "His 
hardware'd  melt  where  I'd  tell  him  to  go,"  he  declared. 
"What  you  say  is  all  right,  Ed.  It's  an  easy  doctrine  to 
preach,  but,  like  lots  of  other  preacher's  doctrines,  it's 
hard  to  live  up  to.  Phin  loves  me  like  a  step-brother  and 
I  love  him  the  same  way.  Well,  now  here  he  comes  to 
ask  me  to  do  a  favor  for  him.  If  I  don't  do  it,  he'll  say, 
and  the  whole  town'll  say,  that  I'm  ventin'  my  spite  on 
him,  keepin'  on  with  my  grudge,  bein'  nasty,  cussed,  every 
thing  that's  mean.  If  I  do  do  it,  if  I  let  Leander  off,  all 
hands'll  say  that  I  did  it  because  I  was  afraid  of  Phineas 
and  the  rest  would  say  the  other  thing.  It  puts  me  in  a 
devil  of  a  position.  It's  all  right  to  say,  'Do  your  duty,' 
'Stand  up  in  your  shoes/  'Do  what  you  think's  right,  never 
mind  whose  boy  'tis,'  and  all  that,  but  I  wouldn't  have 
that  old  skunk  goin'  around  sayin'  I  took  advantage  of  my 
position  to  rob  him  of  his  son  for  anything  on  earth.  I 
despise  him  too  much  to  give  him  that  much  satisfaction. 
And  yet  there  I  am,  and  the  case'll  come  up  afore  me. 
What'll  I  do,  Jed?  Shall  I  resign?  Help  me  out.  I'm 
about  crazy.  Shall  I  heave  up  the  job?  Shall  I  quit?" 


20  "SHAVINGS" 


Jed  put  down  the  brush  and  the  sailor  man.  He  nibbed 
his  chin. 

"No-o,"  he  drawled,  after  a  moment. 

"Oh,  I  shan't,  eh?    Why  not?" 

"  'Cause  you  don't  know  how,  Sam.  It  always  seemed 
to  me  that  it  took  a  lot  of  practice  to  be  a  quitter.  You 
never  practiced." 

"Thanks.  All  right,  then,  I'm  to  hang  on,  I  suppose, 
and  take  my  medicine.  If  that's  all  the  advice  you've  got 
to  give  me,  I  might  as  well  have  stayed  at  home.  But  I 
tell  you  this,  Jed  Winslow:  If  I'd  realized — if  I'd  thought 
about  the  Leander  Babbitt  case  comin'  up  afore  me  on  that 
Board  I  never  would  have  accepted  the  appointment.  When 
you  and  I  were  talkin'  here  the  other  night  it's  qu-eer  that 
neither  of  us  thought  of  it.  ...  Eh?  What  are  you  look- 
in'  at  me  like  that  for?  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that 
you  did  think  of  it?  Did  you?" 

Winslow  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "I  thought  of  it." 

"You  did!  Well,  I  swear!  Then  why  in  thunder  didn't 
you " 

He  was  interrupted.  The  bell  attached  to  the  door  of 
the  outer  shop  rang.  The  maker  of  windmills  rose  jerkily 
to  his  feet.  Captain  Sam  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"Get  rid  of  your  customer  and  come  back  here  soon  as 
you  can,"  he  ordered.  Having  commanded  a  steamer  be 
fore  he  left  the  sea  and  become  a  banker,  the  captain  usually 
ordered  rather  than  requested.  "Hurry  all  you  can.  I 
ain't  half  through  talkin'  with  you.  For  the  land  sakes, 
move!  Of  all  the  deliberate,  slow  travelin' " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  nor  did  Winslow,  who 
had  started  toward  the  door,  have  time  to  reach  it.  The 
door  was  opened  and  a  short,  thickset  man,  with  a  leathery 
face  and  a  bristling  yellow-white  chin  beard,  burst  into 


"SHAVINGS"  21 


the  room.  At  the  sight  of  its  occupants  he  uttered  a  grunt 
of  satisfaction  and  his  bushy  brows  were  drawn  together 
above  his  little  eyes,  the  latter  a  washed-out  gray  and 
set  very  close  together. 

"Humph!"  he  snarled,  vindictively.  "So  you  be  here. 
Gabe  Bearse  said  you  was,  but  I  thought  probably  he  was 
lyin',  as  usual.  Did  he  lie  about  the  other  thing,  that's 
what  I've  come  here  to  find  out?  Sam  Hunniwell,  have 
you  been  put  on  that  Draft  Exemption  Board?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  curtly,  "I  have." 

The  man  trembled  all  over. 

"You  have?"  he  cried,  raising  his  voice  almost  to  a 
scream. 

"Yes,  I  have.  What's  it  matter  to  you,  Phin  Babbitt? 
Seems  to  have  het  you  up  some,  that  or  somethin'  else." 

"7Tet  me  up!  By "  Mr.  Phineas  Babbitt  swore 

steadily  for  a  full  minute.  When  he  stopped  for  breath 
Jed  Winslow,  who  had  stepped  over  and  was  looking  out 
of  the  window,  uttered  an  observation. 

"I'm  afraid  I  made  a  mistake,  changin'  that  sign,"  he 
said,  musingly.  "I  cal'late  I'll  make  another:  'Prayer 
meetin's  must  be  held  outside.'  " 

"By — ,"  began  Mr.  Babbitt  again,  but  this  time  it  was 
Captain  Sam  who  interrupted.  The  captain  occasionally 
swore  at  other  people,  but  he  was  not  accustomed  to  be 
sworn  at.  He,  too,  began  to  "heat  up."  He  rose  to 
his  feet. 

"That'll  do,  Babbitt,"  he  commanded.  "What's  the 
matter  whh  you?  Is  it  me  you're  cussin'?  Because  if 
it  is " 

The  little  Babbitt  eyes  snapped  defiance. 

"If  it  i$,  what?"  he  demanded.  But  before  the  captain 
could  reply  Winslow,  turning  away  from  the  window,  did 
so  for  him. 


22  "SHAVINGS' 


"If  it  is,  I  should  say  'twas  a  pretty  complete  job,"  he 
drawled.  "I  don't  know  when  I've  heard  fewer  things  left 
out.  You  have  reason  to  be  proud,  both  of  you.  And 
now,  Phineas,"  he  went  on,  "what's  it  all  about?  What's 
the  matter  ?" 

Mr.  Babbitt  waved  his  fists  again,  preparatory  to  another 
outburst.  Jed  laid  a  big  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Don't  seem  to  me  time  for  the  benediction  yet,  Phineas," 
he  said.  "Ought  to  preach  your  sermon  or  sing  a  hymn 
first,  seems  so.  What  did  you  come  here  for?" 

Phineas  Babbitt's  hard  gray  eyes  looked  up  into  the  big 
brown  ones  gazing  mildly  down  upon  him.  His  gaze  shifted 
and  his  tone  when  he  next  spoke  was  a  trifle  less  savage. 

"He  knows  well  enough  what  I  came  here  for,"  he 
growled,  indicating  Hunniwell  with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb. 
"He  knows  that  just  as  well  as  he  knows  why  he  had 
himself  put  on  that  Exemption  Board." 

"I  didn't  have  myself  put  there,"  declared  the  captain. 
"The  job  was  wished  on  me.  Lord  knows  I  didn't  want 
it.  I  was  just  tellin'  Jed  here  that  very  thing." 

"Wished  on  you  nothin'!  You  planned  to  get  it  and 
you  worked  to  get  it  and  I  know  why  you  did  it,  too.  'Twas 
to  get  another  crack  at  me.  'Twas  to  play  another  dirty 
trick  on  me  like  the  one  you  played  that  cheated  me  out  of 
the  post  office.  You  knew  they'd  drafted  my  boy  and  you 
wanted  to  make  sure  he  didn't  get  clear.  You " 

"That'll  do!"  Captain  Hunniwell  seized  him  by  the 
shoulder.  "That's  enough,"  cried  the  captain.  "Your  boy 
had  nothin'  to  do  with  it.  I  never  thought  of  his  name 
bein'  drawn  when  I  said  I'd  accept  the  job." 

"You  lie !" 

"What?  Why,  you  little  sawed-off,  dried-up,  sassy  son 
of  a  sea  cook !  I'll " 


"SHAVINGS"  23 


Winslow's  lanky  form  was  interposed  between  the  pair; 
and  his  slow,  gentle  drawl  made  itself  heard. 

"I'm  sorry  to  interrupt  the  experience  meetin',"  he  said, 
"but  I've  got  a  call  to  testify  and  I  feel  the  spirit  aworkin'. 
Set  down  again,  Sam,  will  you  please.  Phineas,  you  set 
down  over  there.  Please  set  down,  both  of  you.  Sam,  as 
a  favor  to  me " 

But  the  captain  was  not  in  a  favor-extending  mood.  He 
glowered  at  his  adversary  and  remained  standing. 

'Thin "  begged  Winslow.  But  Mr.  Babbitt,  although 

a  trifle  paler  than  when  he  entered  the  shop,  was  not  more 
yielding. 

"I'm  particular  who  I  set  down  along  of,"  he  declared. 
"I'd  as  soon  set  down  with  a — a  rattlesnake  as  I  would 
with  some  humans." 

Captain  Sam  was  not  pale,  far  from  it. 

"Skunks  are  always  afraid  of  snakes,  they  tell  me," 
he  observed,  tartly.  "A  rattlesnake's  honest,  anyhow,  and 
he  ain't  afraid  to  bite.  He  ain't  all  bad  smell  and  nothin' 
else." 

Babbitt's  bristling  chin  beard  quivered  with  inarticulate 
hatred.  Winslow  sighed  resignedly. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  "you  don't  mind  the  other — er — critter 
in  the  menagerie  sittin',  do  you?  Now — now — now,  just  a 
minute,"  he  pleaded,  as  his  two  companions  showed  symp 
toms  of  speaking  simultaneously.  "Just  a  minute;  let  me 
say  a  word.  Phineas,  I  judge  the  only  reason  you  have 
for  objectin'  to  the  captain's  bein'  on  the  Exemption  Board 
is  on  account  of  your  son,  ain't  it?  It's  just  on  Leander's 
account  ?" 

But  before  the  furious  Mr.  Babbitt  could  answer  there 
came  another  interruption.  The  bell  attached  to  the  door 
of  the  outer  shop  rang  once  more.  Jed,  who  had  accepted 
his  own  invitation  to  sit,  rose  again  with  a  groan. 


24  "SHAVINGS" 


"Now  I  wonder  who  that  is?"  he  drawled,  in  mild 
surprise. 

Captain  Hunniwell's  frayed  patience,  never  noted  for 
long  endurance,  snapped  again.  "Gracious  king!  go  and 
find  out,"  he  roared.  "Whoever  'tis  '11  die  of  old  age 
before  you  get  there." 

The  slow  smile  drifted  over  Mr.  Winslow's  face. 

"Probably  if  I  wait  and  give  'em  a  chance  they'll  come 
in  here  and  have  apoplexy  instead,"  he  said.  "That  seems 
to  be  the  fashionable  disease  this  afternoon.  They  won't 
stay  out  there  and  be  lonesome ;  they'll  come  in  here  where 
it's  private  and  there's  a  crowd.  Eh?  Yes,  here  they 
come." 

But  the  newest  visitor  did  not  come,  like  the  others, 
uninvited  into  the  "private"  room.  Instead  he  knocked  on 
its  door.  When  Winslow  opened  it  he  saw  a  small  boy 
with  a  yellow  envelope  in  his  hand. 

"Hello,  Josiah,"  hailed  Jed,  genially.  "How's  the  presi 
dent  of  the  Western  Union  these  days?" 

The  boy  grinned  bashfully  and  opined  the  magnate  just 
mentioned  was  "all  right."  Then  he  added : 

"Is  Mr.  Babbitt  here?  Mr.  Bearse — Mr.  Gabe  Bearse 
— is  over  at  the  office  and  he  said  he  saw  Mr.  Babbitt  come 
in  here." 

"Yes,  he's  here.     Want  to  see  him,  do  you?" 

"I've  got  a  telegram  for  him." 

Mr.  Babbitt  himself  came  forward  and  took  the  yellow 
envelope.  After  absently  turning  it  over  several  times,  as 
so  many  people  do  when  they  receive  an  unexpected  letter 
or  message,  he  tore  it  open. 

Winslow  and  Captain  Sam,  watching  him,  saw  his  face, 
to  which  the  color  had  returned  in  the  last  few  minutes, 
grow  white  again.  He  staggered  a  little.  Jed  stepped 
toward  him. 


"SHAVINGS"  25 


"What  is  it,  Phin  ?"  he  asked.     "Somebody  dead  or- 


Babbitt  waved  him  away.  "No,"  he  gasped,  chokingly. 
"No,  let  me  be.  I'm— I'm  all  right." 

Captain  Sam,  a  little  conscience-stricken,  came  forward. 

"Are  you  sick,  Phin?"  he  asked.  "Is  there  anything  I 
can  do?" 

Phineas  glowered  at  him.  "Yes,"  he  snarled  between 
his  clenched  teeth,  "you  can  mind  your  own  darned  busi 
ness." 

Then,  turning  to  the  boy  who  had  brought  the  message, 
he  ordered:  "You  get  out  of  here." 

The  frightened  youngster  scuttled  away  and  Babbitt,  the 
telegram  rattling  in  his  shaking  hand,  followed  him.  The 
captain,  hurrying  to  the  window,  saw  him  go  down  the  walk 
and  along  the  road  in  the  direction  of  his  store.  He  walked 
like  a  man  stricken. 

Captain  Sam  turned  back  again.  "Now  what  in  time 
was  in  that  telegram?"  he  demanded.  Jed,  standing  with 
his  back  toward  him  and  looking  out  of  the  window  on  the 
side  of  the  shop  toward  the  sea,  did  not  answer. 

"Do  you  hear  me?"  asked  the  captain.  "That  telegram 
struck  him  Hke  a  shock  of  paralysis.  He  went  all  to 
pieces.  What  on  earth  do  you  suppose  was  in  it?  Eh? 
Why  don't  you  say  somethin'  ?  You  don't  know  what  was 
in  it,  do  you  ?" 

Winslow  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  answered.  "I  don't 
know's  I  do." 

"You  don't  know  as  you  do?  Well,  do  you  gitess  you 
do?  Jed  Winslow,  what  have  you  got  up  your  sleeve?" 

The  proprietor  of  the  windmill  shop  slowly  turned  and 
faced  him.  "I  don't  know's  there's  anything  there,  Sam," 
he  answered,  "but — but  I  shouldn't  be  much  surprised  i£ 
that  telegram  was  from  Leander." 


26  "SHAVINGS" 


"Leander?  Leander  Babbitt?  What  ...  Eh?  What 
in  thunder  do  you  want  ?" 

The  last  question  was  directed  toward  the  window  on 
the  street  side  of  the  shop.  Mr.  Gabriel  Bearse  was 
standing  on  the  outside  of  that  window,  energetically 
thumping  on  the  glass. 

"Open  her  up !  Open  her  up !"  commanded  Gabe.  "I've 
got  somethin'  to  tell  you." 

Captain  Sam  opened  the  window.  Gabriel's  face  was 
aglow  with  excitement.  "Say!  Say!"  he  cried.  "Did  he 
tell  you?  Did  he  tell  you?" 

"Did  who  tell  what?"  demanded  the  captain. 

"Did  Phin  Babbitt  tell  you  what  was  in  that  telegram 
he  just  got?  What  did  he  say  when  he  read  it?  Did  he 
swear?  I  bet  he  did !  If  that  telegram  wan't  some  surprise 
to  old  Babbitt,  then " 

"Do  you  know  what  'twas — what  the  telegram  was?" 

"Do  I?  You  bet  you  I  do!  And  I'm  the  only  one  in 
this  town  except  Phin  and  Jim  Bailey  that  does  know.  I 
was  in  the  telegraph  office  when  Jim  took  it  over  the  wire. 
I  see  Jim  was  pretty  excited.  'Well,'  says  he,  'if  this  won't 
be  some  jolt  to  old  Phin!'  he  says.  'What  will?'  says  I. 
'Why,'  says  he " 

"What  was  it?"  demanded  Captain  Sam.  "You're  dyin' 
to  tell  us,  a  blind  man  could  see  that.  Get  it  off  your  chest 
and  save  your  life.  What  was  it?" 

Mr.  Bearse  kaned  forward  and  whispered.  There  was 
no  real  reason  why  he  should  whisper,  but  doing  so  added 
a  mysterious,  confidential  tang,  so  to  speak,  to  the  value  of 
his  news. 

"  'Twas  from  Leander — from  Phin's  own  boy,  Leander 
Babbitt,  'twas.  'Twas  from  him,  up  in  Boston  and  it 
went  somethin'  like  this:  'Have  enlisted  in  the  infantry* 
Made  up  my  mind  best  thing  to  do.  Will  not  be  back. 


'SHAVINGS"  27 


Have  written  particulars.'  That  was  it,  or  pretty  nigh  it. 
Leander's  enlisted.  Never  waited  for  no  Exemption  Board 
nor  nothin',  but  went  up  and  enlisted  on  his  own  hook  with 
out  tellin'  a  soul  he  was  goin'  to.  That's  the  way  Bailey 
and  me  figger  it  up.  Say,  ain't  that  some  news  ?  Godfreys, 
I  must  hustle  back  to  the  post  office  and  tell  the  gang 
afore  anybody  else  gets  ahead  of  me.  So  long!" 

He  hurried  away  on  his  joyful  errand.  Captain  Hunm- 
well  closed  the  window  and  turned  to  face  his  friend. 

"Do  you  suppose  that's  true,  Jed?"  he  asked.  "Do  you 
suppose  it  can  be  true?" 

Jed  nodded.     "Shouldn't  be  surprised,"  he  said. 

"Good  gracious  king!  Do  you  mean  the  boy  went  off 
up  to  Boston  on  his  own  hook,  as  that  what's-his-name — 
Gab — says,  and  volunteered  and  got  himself  enlisted  into 
the  army?" 

"Shouldn't  wonder,  Sam." 

"Well,  my  gracious  king!  Why — why — no  wonder  old 
Babbitt  looked  as  if  the  main  topsail  yard  had  fell  on 
him.  Tut,  tut,  tut!  Well,  I  declare!  Now  what  do  you 
suppose  put  him  up  to  doin'  that  ?" 

Winslow  sat  down  in  his  low  chair  again  and  picked 
up  the  wooden  sailor  and  the  paint  brush. 

"Well,  Sam,"  he  said,  slowly,  "Leander's  a  pretty  good 
boy." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  he  is,  but  he's  Phin  Babbitt's  son." 

"I  know,  but  don't  it  seem  to  you  as  if  some  sorts  of 
fathers  was  like  birthmarks  and  bow  legs ;  they  come  early 
in  life  and  a  feller  ain't  to  blame  for  havin'  'em?  Sam, 
you  ain't  sorry  the  boy's  volunteered,  are  you?" 

"Sorry!  I  should  say  not!  For  one  thing  his  doin'  it 
makes  my  job  on  the  Exemption  Board  a  mighty  sight 
easier.  There  won't  be  any  row  there  with  Phineas  now." 


28  "SHAVINGS" 


"No-o,  I  thought  'twould  help  that.  But  that  wan't  the 
whole  reason,  Sam." 

"Reason  for  what?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  wan't  my  whole  reason  for  tellin'  Leander 
he'd  better  volunteer,  better  go  up  to  Boston  and  enlist, 
same  as  he  did.  That  was  part,  but  'twan't  all." 

Captain  Sam's  eyes  and  mouth  opened.  He  stared  at 
the  speaker  in  amazement. 

"You  told  him  to  volunteer?"  he  repeated.  "You  told 
him  to  go  to  Boston  and You  did  ?  What  on  earth  ?" 

Jed's  brush  moved  slowly  down  the  wooden  legs  of  his 
sailor  man. 

"Leander  and  I  are  pretty  good  friends,"  he  explained. 
"I  like  him  and  he — er — hum — I'm  afraid  that  paint's  kind 
of  thick.  Cal'late  I'll  have  to  thin  it  a  little." 

Captain  Sam  condemned  the  paint  to  an  eternal  blister. 
"Go  on!  go  on!"  he  commanded.  "What  about  you  and 
Leander?  Finish  her  out.  Can't  you  see  you've  got  my 
head  whirlin'  like  one  of  those  windmills  of  yours  ?  Finish 
her  out!" 

Jed  looked  over  his  spectacles. 

"Oh!"  he  said.  "Well,  Leander's  been  comin'  in  here 
pretty  frequent  and  we've  talked  about  his  affairs  a  good 
deal.  He's  always  wanted  to  enlist  ever  since  the  war 
broke  out." 

"He  has?  " 

"Why,  sartin.  Just  the  same  as  you  would,  or — or  I  hope 
I  would,  if  I  was  young  and — and,"  with  a  wistful  smile, 
"different,  and  likely  to  be  any  good  to  Uncle  Sam.  Yes, 
Leander's  been  anxious  to  go  to  war,  but  his  dad  was  so 
set  against  it  all  and  kept  hollerin'  so  about  the  boy's  bein' 
needed  in  the  store,  that  Leander  didn't  hardly  know  what 
to  do.  But  then  when  he  was  drawn  on  the  draft  list  he 
came  in  here  and  he  and  I  had  a  long  talk.  'Twas  yester- 


"SHAVINGS"  29 


day,  after  you'd  told  me  about  bein'  put  on  the  Board, 
you  know.  I  could  see  the  trouble  there'd  be  between  you 
and  Phineas  and — and — well,  you  see,  Sam,  I  just  kind 
of  wanted  that  boy  to  volunteer.  I — I  don't  know  why, 

but '     He  looked  up  from  his  work  and  stared  dreamily 

out  of  the  window.  "I  guess  maybe  'twas  because  I've 
been  wishin'  so  that  I  could  go  myself — or — do  somethin 
that  was  some  good.  So  Leander  and  I  talked  and  finally 
he  said,  'Well,  by  George,  I  will  go.'  And — and — well,  I 
guess  that's  all;  he  went,  you  see." 
The  captain  drew  a  long  breath. 

"He  went,"  he  repeated.     "And  you  knew  he'd  gone  ?" 
"No,  I  didn't  know,  but  I  kind  of  guessed." 
"You  guessed,  and  yet  all  the  time  I've  been  here  you 
haven't  said  a  word  about  it  till  this  minute." 

"Well,  I  didn't  think  'twas  much  use  sayin'  until  I  knew." 
"Well,  my  gracious  king,  Jed  Winslow,  you  beat  all  my 
goin'  to  sea !    But  you've  helped  Uncle  Sam  to  a  good  soldier 
and  you've  helped  me  out  of  a  nasty  row.     For  my  part 
I'm  everlastin'  obliged  to  you,  I  am  so." 
Jed  looked  pleased  but  very  much  embarrassed. 
"Sho,  sho,"  he  exclaimed,  hastily,  "  'twan't  anything.    Oh, 
say,"  hastily  changing  the  subject,  "I've  got  some  money 
'round  here  somewheres  I  thought  maybe  you'd  take  to  the 
bank  and  deposit  for  me  next  time  you  went,  if  'twan't  too 
much  trouble." 

"Trouble?  Course  'tain't  any  trouble.  Where  is  it?" 
Winslow  put  down  his  work  and  began  to  hunt.  From 
one  drawer  of  his  work  bench,  amid  nails,  tools  and  huddles 
of  papers,  he  produced  a  small  bundle  of  banknotes;  from 
another  drawer  another  bundle.  These,  however,  did  not 
seem  to  satisfy  him  entirely.  At  last,  after  a  good  deal 
of  very  deliberate  search,  he  unearthed  more  paper  currency 
from  the  pocket  of  a  dirty  pair  of  overalls  hanging  on  a 


30  "SHAVINGS" 


nail,  and  emptied  a  heap  of  silver  and  coppers  from  a  bat 
tered  can  on  the  shelf.  Captain  Hunniwell,  muttering  to 
himself,  watched  the  collecting  process.  When  it  was 
completed,  he  asked: 

"Is  this  all?" 

"Eh?  Yes,  I  guess  'tis.  I  can't  seem  to  find  any  more 
just  now.  Maybe  another  batch'll  turn  11p  later.  If  it 
does  I'll  keep  it  till  next  time." 

The  captain,  suppressing  his  emotions,  hastily  counted 
the  money. 

"Have  you  any  ide.a  how  much  there  is  here  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  I  don't  know's  I  have.  There's  been  quite  con- 
sider'ble  comin'  in  last  fortni't  or  so.  Summer  folks  been 
payin'  bills  and  one  thing  or  'nother.  Might  be  forty  or 
fifty  dollars,  I  presume  likely." 

"Forty  or  fifty !  Nearer  a  hundred  and  fifty!  And  you 
keep  it  stuffed  around  in  every  junk  hole  from  the  roof  to 
the  cellar.  Wonder  to  me  you  don't  light  your  pipe  with 
it.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  did.  How  many  times  have 
I  told  you  to  deposit  your  money  every  three  days  anyhow  ? 
How  many  times  ?" 

Mr.  Winslow  seemed  to  reflect. 

"Don't  know,  Sam,"  he  admitted.  "Good  many,  I  will 
give  in.  But — but,  you  see,  Sam,  if — if  I  take  it  to  the 
bank  I'm  liable  to  forget  I've  got  it.  Long's  it's  round 
here  somewheres  I — why,  I  know  where  'tis  and — and  it's 
handy.  See,  don't  you  ?" 

The  captain  shook  his  head. 

"Jed  Winslow,"  he  declared,  "as  I  said  to  you  just 
now  you  beat  all  my  goin'  to  sea.  I  can't  make  you  out. 
When  I  see  how  you  act  with  money  and  business,  and  how 
you  let  folks  take  advantage  of  you,  then  I  think  you're  a 
plain  dum  fool.  And  yet  when  you  bob  up  and  do  some- 
thin'  like  gettin'  Leander  Babbitt  to  volunteer  and  gettin' 


'SHAVINGS"  31 


me  out  of  that  row  with  his  father,  then — well,  then,  I'm 
ready  to  swear  you're  as  wise  as  King  Solomon  ever  was. 
You're  a  puzzle  to  me,  Jed.  What  are  you,  anyway — the 
dum  fool  or  King  Solomon?" 

Jed  looked  meditatively  over  his  spectacles.  The  slow 
smile  tw;tched  the  corners  of  his  lips. 

"Well,  Sam,"  he  drawled,  "if  you  put  it  to  vote  at  town 
meetin'  I  cal'late  the  majority'd  be  all  one  way.  But,  I 
don't  know" — ;  he  paused,  and  then  added,  "I  don't  know, 
Sam,  but  it's  just  as  well  as  'tis.  A  King  Solomon  down 
here  in  Orham  would  be  an  awful  lonesome  cuss." 


CHAPTER  III 

UPON  a  late  September  day  forty-nine  years  and 
some  months  before  that  upon  which  Gabe  Bearse 
came  to  Jed  Winslow's  windmill  shop  in  Orham 
with  the  news  of  Leander  Babbitt's  enlistment,  Miss  Floretta 
Thompson  came  to  that  village  to  teach  the  "downstairs" 
school.  Miss  Thompson  was  an  orphan.  Her  father  had 
kept  a  small  drug  store  in  a  town  in  western  Massachusetts. 
Her  mother  had  been  a  clergyman's  daughter.  Both  had 
died  when  she  was  in  her  'teens.  Now,  at  twenty,  she 
came  to  Cape  Cod,  pale,  slim,  with  a  wealth  of  light  brown 
hair  and  a  pair  of  large,  dreamy  brown  eyes.  Her  taste 
in  dress  was  peculiar,  even  eccentric,  and  Orham  soon 
discovered  that  she,  herself,  was  also  somewhat  eccentric. 

As  a  schoolteacher  she  was  not  an  unqualified  success. 
The  "downstairs"  curriculum  was  not  extensive  nor  very 
exacting,  but  it  was  supposed  to  impart  to  the  boys  and 
girls  of  from  seven  to  twelve  a  rudimentary  knowledge  of 
the  three  R's  and  of  geography.  In  the  first  two  R's,  "read- 
in'  and  'ntin',"  Miss  Thompson  was  proficient.  She  wrote 
a  flowery  Spencerian,  which  was  beautifully  "shaded"  and 
looked  well  on  the  blackboard,  and  reading  was  the  dis 
sipation  of  her  spare  moments.  The  third  "R,"  'rithmetic, 
she  loathed. 

Youth,  even  at  the  ages  of  from  seven  to  twelve,  is  only 
too  proficient  in  learning  to  evade  hard  work.  The  fact 
that  Teacher  took  no  delight  in  traveling  the  prosaic  high 
ways  of  addition,  multiplication  and  division,  but  could  be 
easily  lured  to  wander  the  flowery  lanes  of  romantic  fiction, 

32 


"SHAVINGS"  33 


was  soon  grasped  by  the  downstairs  pupils.  The  hour  set 
for  recitation  by  the  first  class  in  arithmetic  was  often 
and  often  monopolized  by  a  hold-over  of  the  first  class  in 
reading,  while  Miss  Floretta,  artfully  spurred  by  questions 
asked  by  the  older  scholars,  rhapsodized  on  the  beauties 
of  James  Fenimore  Cooper's  "Uncas,"  or  Dickens'  "Little 
Nell,"  or  Scott's  "Ellen."  Some  of  us  antiques,  then  tow- 
headed  little  shavers  in  the  front  seats,  can  still  remember 
Miss  Floretta's  rendition  of  the  lines: 

"And  Saxon—/  am  Roderick  Dhu !" 

The  extremely  genteel,  not  to  say  ladylike,  elocution  of 
the  Highland  chief  and  the  indescribable  rising  inflection 
and  emphasis  on  the  "I." 

These  literary  rambles  had  their  inevitable  effect,  an 
effect  noted,  after  a  time,  and  called  to  the  attention  of  the 
school  committee  by  old  Captain  Lycurgus  Batchel  lor, 
whose  two  grandchildren  were  among  the  ramblers. 

"Say,"  demanded  Captain  Lycurgus,  "how  old  does  a 
young-one  have  to  be  afore  it's  supposed  to  know  how 
much  four  times  eight  is?  My  Sarah's  Nathan  is  pretty 
nigh  ten  and  he  don't  know  it.  Gave  me  three  answers  he 
did;  first  that  'twas  forty-eight,  then  that  'twas  eighty-four 
and  then  that  he'd  forgot  what  'twas.  But  I  noticed  he  could 
tell  me  a  whole  string  about  some  feller  called  Lockintar 
or  Lochinvar  or  some  such  outlandish  name,  and  not  only 
his  name  but  where  he  came  from,  which  was  out  west 
somewheres.  A  poetry  piece  'twas ;  Nate  said  the  teacher'd 
been  speakin'  it  to  'em.  I  ain't  got  no  objection  to  speakin' 
pieces,  but  I  do  object  to  bein'  told  that  four  times  eight  is 
eighty-four,  'specially  when  I'm  buy  in'  codfish  at  eight 
cents  a  pound.  /  ain't  on  the  school  committee,  but  if  I 
was " 

So  the  committee  investigated  and  when  Miss  Thompson's 
year  was  up  and  the  question  arose  as  to  her  reengagement, 


34  "SHAVINGS" 


there  was  considerable  hesitancy.  But  the  situation  was 
relieved  in  a  most  unexpected  fashion.  Thaddeus  Winslow, 
first  mate  on  the  clipper  ship,  "Owner's  Favorite,"  at  home 
from  a  voyage  to  the  Dutch  East  Indies,  fell  in  love  with 
Miss  Floretta,  proposed,  was  accepted  and  married  her. 

It  was  an  odd  match:  Floretta,  pale,  polite,  impractical 
and  intensely  romantic;  Thad,  florid,  rough  and  to  the 
point.  Yet  the  married  pair  seemed  to  be  happy  together. 
Winslow  went  to  sea  on  several  voyages  and,  four  years 
after  the  marriage,  remained  at  home  for  what,  for  him, 
was  a  long  time.  During  that  time  a  child,  a  boy,  was 
born. 

The  story  of  the  christening  of  that  child  is  one  of 
Orham's  pet  yarns  even  to  this  day.  It  seems  that  there 
was  a  marked  disagreement  concerning  the  name  to  be 
given  him.  Captain  Thad  had  had  an  Uncle  Edgar,  who 
had  been  very  kind  to  him  when  a  boy.  The  captain  wished 
to  name  his  own  youngster  after  this  uncle.  But  Floretta' s 
heart  was  set  upon  "Wilfred,"  her  favorite  hero  of  romance 
being  Wilfred  of  Ivanhoe.  The  story  is  that  the  parents 
being  no  nearer  an  agreement  on  the  great  question,  Floretta 
made  a  proposal  of  compromise.  She  proposed  that  her 
husband  take  up  his  stand  by  the  bedroom  window  and  the 
first  male  person  he  saw  passing  on  the  sidewalk  below,  the 
name  of  that  person  should  be  given  to  their  offspring;  a 
sporting  proposition  certainly.  But  the  story  goes  on  to 
detract  a  bit  from  the  sporting  element  by  explaining  that 
Mrs.  Winslow  was  expecting  a  call  at  that  hour  from  the 
Baptist  minister,  and  the  Baptist  minister's  Christian  name 
was  "Clarence,"  which,  if  not  quite  as  romantic  as  Wil 
fred,  is  by  no  means  common  and  prosaic.  Captain  Thad, 
who  had  not  been  informed  of  the  expected  ministerial  call 
and  was  something  of  a  sport  himself,  assented  to  the 
arrangement.  It  was  solemnly  agreed  that  the  name  of 


"SHAVINGS"  35 


the  first  male  passer-by  should  be  the  name  of  the  new 
Winslow.  The  captain  took  up  his  post  of  observation 
at  the  window  and  waited. 

He  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  Unfortunately  for  ro 
mance,  the  Reverend  Clarence  was  detained  at  the  home 
of  another  parishioner  a  trifle  longer  than  he  had  planned 
and  the  first  masculine  to  pass  the  Winslow  home  was  old 
Jedidah  Wingate,  the  fish  peddler.  Mrs.  Diadama  Busteed, 
who  was  acting  as  nurse  in  the  family  and  had  been  sworn 
in  as  witness  to  the  agreement  between  husband  and  wife, 
declared  to  the  day  of  her  death  that  that  death  was 
hastened  by  the  shock  to  her  nervous  and  moral  system 
caused  by  Captain  Thad's  language  when  old  Jedidah  hove 
in  sight.  He  vowed  over  and  over  again  that  he  would  be 
everlastingly  condemned  if  he  would  label  a  young-one  of 
his  with  such  a  crashety-blank-blanked  outrage  of  a  name  as 
"Jedidah."  "Jedidiah"  was  bad  enough,  but  there  were  a 
few  Jedidiahs  in  Ostable  County,  whereas  there  was  but  one 
Jedidah.  Mrs.  Winslow,  who  did  not  fancy  Jedidah  any 
more  than  her  husband  did,  wept ;  Captain  Thad's  profanity 
impregnated  the  air  with  brimstone.  But  they  had  solemnly 
sworn  to  the  agreement  and  Mrs.  Busteed  had  witnessed  it, 
and  an  oath  is  an  oath.  Besides,  Mrs.  Winslow  was  inclined 
to  think  the  whole  matter  guided-  by  Fate,  and,  being 
superstitious  as  well  as  romantic,  feared  dire  calamity  if 
Fate  was  interfered  with.  It  ended  in  a  compromise  and, 
a  fortnight  later,  the  Reverend  Clarence,  keeping  his 
countenance  with  difficulty,  christened  a  red-faced  and  pro 
testing  infant  "Jedidah  Edgar  Wilfred  Winslow." 

Jedidah  Edgar  Wilfred  grew  up.  At  first  he  was  called 
"Edgar"  by  his  father  and  "Wilfred"  by  his  mother.  His 
teachers,  day  school  and  Sunday  school,  called  him  one  or 
the  other  as  suited  their  individual  fancies.  But  his  school 
mates  and  playfellows,  knowing  that  he  hated  the  name 


36  "SHAVINGS" 


above  all  else  on  earth,  gleefully  hailed  him  as  "Jedidah." 
By  the  time  he  was  ten  he  was  "Jed"  Winslow  beyond  hope 
of  recovery.  Also  it  was  settled  locally  that  he  was  "queer" 
— not  "cracked"  or  "lacking,"  which  would  have  implied 
that  his  brain  was  affected — but  just  "queer,"  which  meant 
that  his  ways  of  thinking  and  acting  were  different  from 
those  of  Orham  in  general. 

His  father,  Captain  Thaddeus,  died  when  Jed  was  fifteen, 
just  through  the  grammar  school  and  ready  to  enter  the 
high.  He  did  not  enter;  instead,  the  need  of  money  being 
pressing,  he  went  to  work  in  one  of  the  local  stores,  selling 
behind  the  counter.  If  his  father  had  lived  he  would, 
probably,  have  gone  away  after  finishing  high  school  and 
perhaps,  if  by  that  time  the  mechanical  ability  which  he 
possessed  had  shown  itself,  he  might  even  have  gone  to 
some  technical  school  or  college.  In  that  case  Jed  Win- 
slow's  career  might  have  been  very,  very  different.  But 
instead  he  went  to  selling  groceries,  boots,  shoes,  dry  goods 
and  notions  for  Mr.  Seth  Wingate,  old  Jedidah's  younger 
brother. 

As  a  grocery  clerk  Jed  was  not  a  success,  neither  did  he 
shine  as  a  clerk  in  the  post  office,  nor  as  an  assistant  to  the 
local  expressman.  In  desperation  he  began  to  learn  the 
carpenter's  trade  and,  because  he  liked  to  handle  tools, 
did  pretty  well  at  it.  But  he  continued  to  be  "queer"  and 
his  absent-minded  dreaminess  was  in  evidence  even  then. 

"I  snum  /  don't  know  what  to  make  of  him,"  declared 
Mr.  Abijah  Mullett,  who  was  the  youth's  "boss."  "Never 
know  just  what  he's  goin'  to  do  or  just  what  he's  goin* 
to  say.  I  says  to  him  yesterday:  'Jed,'  says  I,  'you  do 
pretty  well  with  tools  and  wood,  considerin'  what  little 
experience  you've  had.  Did  Cap'n  Thad  teach  you  some 
or  did  you  pick  it  up  yourself?'  He  never  answered  for 
a  minute  or  so,  seemed  to  be  way  off  dreamin'  in  the  next 


"SHAVINGS"  37 


county  somewheres.  Then  he  looked  at  me  with  them 
big  eyes  of  his  and  he  drawled  out :  'Comes  natural  to  me, 
Mr.  Mullett,  I  guess,'  he  says.  'There  seems  to  be  a 
sort  of  family  feelin'  between  my  head  and  a  chunk  of 
wood.'  Now  what  kind  of  an  answer  was  that,  I  want 
to  know!" 

Jed  worked  at  carpentering  for  a  number  of  years,  some 
times  going  as  far  away  as  Ostable  to  obtain  employment. 
And  then  his  mother  was  seized  with  the  illness  from 
which,  so  she  said,  she  never  recovered.  It  is  true  that 
Doctor  Parker,  the  Orham  physician,  declared  that  she  had 
recovered,  or  might  recover  if  she  cared  to.  Which  of 
the  pair  was  right  does  not  really  matter.  At  all  events 
Mrs.  Winslow,  whether  she  recovered  or  not,  never  walked 
abroad  again.  She  was  "up  and  about,"  as  they  say  in 
Orham,  and  did  some  housework,  after  a  fashion,  but  she 
never  again  set  foot  across  the  granite  doorstep  of  the 
Winslow  cottage.  Probably  the  poor  woman's  mind  was 
slightly  affected;  it  is  charitable  to  hope  that  it  was.  It 
seems  the  only  reasonable  excuse  for  the  oddity  of  her 
behavior  during  the  last  twenty  years  of  her  life,  for  her 
growing  querulousness  and  selfishness  and  for  the  exacting 
slavery  in  which  she  kept  her  only  son. 

During  those  twenty  years  whatever  ambition  Jedidah 
Edgar  Wilfred  may  once  have  had  was  thoroughly  crushed. 
His  mother  would  not  hear  of  his  leaving  her  to  find  better 
work  or  to  obtain  promotion.  She  needed  him,  she  wailed ; 
he  was  her  life,  her  all ;  she  should  die  if  he  left  her.  Some 
hard-hearted  townspeople,  Captain  Hunniwell  among  them, 
disgustedly  opined  that,  in  view  of  such  a  result,  Jed  should 
be  forcibly  kidnaped  forthwith  for  the  general  better 
ment  01  the  community.  But  Jed  himself  never  rebelled. 
He  cheerfully  gave  up  his  youth  and  early  middle  age  to 
his  mother  and  waited  upon  her,  ran  her  errands,  sat 


38  "SHAVINGS" 


beside  her  practically  every  evening  and  read  romance 
after  romance  aloud  for  her  benefit.  And  his  "queerness" 
developed,  as  under  such  circumstances  it  was  bound  to  do. 

Money  had  to  be  earned  and,  as  the  invalid  would  not 
permit  him  to  leave  her  to  earn  it,  it  was  necessary  to 
find  ways  of  earning  it  at  home.  Jed  did  odd  jobs  of 
carpentering  and  cabinet  making,  went  fishing  sometimes, 
worked  in  gardens  between  times,  did  almost  anything,  in 
fact,  to  bring  in  the  needed  dollars.  And  when  he  was 
thirty-eight  years  old  he  made  and  sold  his  first  "Cape 
Cod  Winslow  windmill,"  the  forerunner  of  the  thousands 
to  follow.  That  mill,  made  in  some  of  his  rare  idle 
moments  and  given  to  the  child  of  a  wealthy  summer  visi 
tor,  made  a  hit.  The  child  liked  it  and  other  children 
wanted  mills  just  like  it.  Then  "grown-ups"  among  the 
summer  folk  took  up  the  craze.  "Winslow  mills"  became 
the  fad.  Jed  built  his  little  shop,  or  the  first  installment 
of  it. 

Mrs.  Floretta  Winslow  died  when  her  son  was  forty. 
A  merciful  release,  Captain  Sam  and  the  rest  called  it, 
but  to  Jed  it  was  a  stunning  shock.  He  had  no  one  to  take 
care  of  now  except  himself  and  he  did  not  know  what  to 
do.  He  moped  about  like  a  deserted  cat.  Finally  he  de 
cided  that  he  could  not  live  in  the  old  house  where  he 
was  born  and  had  lived  all  his  life.  He  expressed  his 
feelings  concerning  that  house  to  his  nearest  friend,  prac 
tically  his  sole  confidant,  Captain  Sam. 

"I  can't  somehow  seem  to  stand  it,  Sam,"  he  said, 
solemnly.  "I  can't  stay  in  that  house  alone  any  longer, 
it's — it's  too  sociable." 

The  captain,  who  had  expected  almost  anything  but  that, 
stared  at  him. 

"Sociable!"  he  repeated.  "You're  sailin'  stern  first,  Jed. 
Lonesome's  what  you  mean,  of  course." 


'SHAVINGS"  39 


Jed  shook  his  head. 

"No-o,"  he  drawled,  "I  mean  sociable.  There's  too 
many  boys  in  there,  for  one  thing." 

"Boys!"  Captain  Sam  was  beginning  to  be  really 
alarmed  now.  "Boys !  Say — say,  Jed  Winslow,  you  come 
along  home  to  dinner  with  me.  I  bet  you've  forgot  to 
eat  anything  for  the  last  day  or  so — been  inventin'  some 
new  kind  of  whirlagig  or  other — and  your  empty  stomach's 
gone  to  your  head  and  made  it  dizzy.  Boys!  Gracious 
king!  Come  on  home  with  me." 

Jed  smiled  his  slow  smile.  "I  don't  mean  real  boys, 
Sam,"  he  explained.  "I  mean  me — I'm  the  boys.  Nights 
now  when  I'm  walkin'  around  in  that  house  alone  I  meet 
myself  comin'  round  every  corner.  Me  when  I  was  five, 
comin'  out  of  the  buttery  with  a  cooky  in  each  fist;  and 
me  when  I  was  ten  sittin'  studyin'  my  lesson  book  in  the  cor 
ner;  and  me  when  I  was  fifteen,  just  afore  Father  died, 
sittin'  all  alone  thinkin'  what  I'd  do  when  I  went  to  Boston 
Tech  same  as  he  said  he  was  cal'latin'  to  send  me. 
Then ." 

He  paused  and  lapsed  into  one  of  his  fits  of  musing. 
His  friend  drew  a  breath  of  relief. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed.  "Well,  I  don't  mind  your  meetin* 
yourself.  I  thought  first  you'd  gone  off  your  head,  blessed 
if  I  didn't.  You're  a  queer  critter,  Jed.  Get  those  funny 
notions  from  readin'  so  many  books,  I  guess  likely. 
Meetin'  yourself !  What  an  idea  that  is !  I  suppose  you 
mean  that,  bein'  alone  in  that  house  where  you've,  lived 
since  you  was  born,  you  naturally  get  to  thinkin'  about 
what  used  to  be." 

Jed  stared  wistfully  at  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"Um-hm,"  he  murmured;  "and  what  might  have  been — 
and — and  ain't." 

The  captain  nodded.     Of  all  the  people  in  Orham  he, 


40  "SHAVINGS" 


he  prided  himself,  was  the  only  one  who  thoroughly  under 
stood  Jed  Winslow.  And  sometimes  he  did  partially  under 
stand  him;  this  was  one  of  the  times. 

"Now — now — now,"  he  said,  hastily,  "don't  you  get  to 
frettin'  yourself  about  your  not  amountin'  to  anything  and 
all  that.  You've  got  a  nice  little  trade  of  your  own  buildin' 
up  here.  What  more  do  you  want  ?  We  can't  all  be — er — 
Know-it-alls  like  Shakespeare,  or — or  rich  as  Standard  Oil 
Companies,  can  we?  Look  here,  what  do  you  waste  your 
time  goin'  back  twenty-five  years  and  meetin'  yourself  for? 
Why  don't  you  look  ahead  ten  or  fifteen  and  try  to  meet 
yourself  then?  You  may  be  a  millionaire,  a — er — wind 
mill  trust  or  somethin'  of  that  kind,  by  that  time.  Eh? 
Ha,  ha!" 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin. 

"When  I  meet  myself  lookin'  like  a  millionaire,"  he 
observed,  gravely,  "I'll  have  to  do  the  way  you  do  at  your 
bank,  Sam — call  in  somebody  to  identify  me." 

Captain  Sam  laughed.  "Well,  anyhow,"  he  said,  "don't 
talk  any  more  foolishness  about  not  livin'  in  your  own 
house.  If  I  was  you " 

Mr.  Winslow  interrupted.  "Sam,"  he  said,  "the  way 
to  find  out  what  you  would  do  if  you  was  me  is  to  make 
sure  what  you'd  do — and  then  do  t'other  thing,  or  some- 
thin'  worse." 

"Oh,  Jed,  be  reasonable." 

Jed  looked  over  his  spectacles.  "Sam,"  he  drawled,  "if 
I  was  reasonable  I  wouldn't  be  me." 

And  he  lived  no  longer  in  the  old  house.  Having  made 
up  his  mind,  he  built  a  small  two-room  addition  to  his 
workshop  and  lived  in  that.  Later  he  added  a  sleeping 
room — a  sort  of  loft — and  a  little  covered  porch  on  the 
side  toward  the  sea.  Here,  in  pleasant  summer  twilights 
or  on  moonlight  nights,  he  sat  and  smoked.  He  had  a 


"SHAVINGS"  41 


good  many  callers  and  but  few  real  friends.  Most  of  the 
townspeople  liked  him,  but  almost  all  considered  him  a 
joke,  an  oddity,  a  specimen  to  be  pointed  out  to  those  of 
the  summer  people  who  were  looking  for  "types."  A  few, 
like  Mr.  Gabriel  Bearse,  who  distinctly  did  not  understand 
him  and  who  found  his  solemn  suggestions  and  pointed 
repartee  irritating  at  times,  were  inclined  to  refer  to  him 
in  these  moments  of  irritation  as  "town  crank."  But  they 
did  not  really  mean  it  when  they  said  it.  And  some  others, 
like  Leander  Babbitt  or  Captain  Hunniwell,  came  to  ask 
his  advice  on  personal  matters,  although  even  they 
patronized  him  just  a  little.  He  had  various  nicknames, 
"Shavings"  being  the  most  popular. 

His  peculiar  business,  the  making  of  wooden  mills,  toys 
and  weather  vanes,  had  grown  steadily.  Now  he  shipped 
many  boxes  of  these  to  other  seashore  and  mountain  re 
sorts.  He  might  have  doubled  his  output  had  he  chosen  to 
employ  help  or  to  enlarge  his  plant,  but  he  would  not  do 
so.  He  had  rented  the  old  Winslow  house  furnished  once 
to  a  summer  tenant,  but  he  never  did  so  again,  although  he 
had  many  opportunities.  He  lived  alone  in  the  addition  to 
the  little  workshop,  cooking  his  own  meals,  making  his  own 
bed,  and  sewing  on  his  own  buttons. 

And  on  the  day  following  that  upon  which  Leander 
Babbitt  enrolled  to  fight  for  Uncle  Sam,  Jedidah  Edgar 
Wilfred  Winslow  was  forty-five  years  old. 

He  was  conscious  of  that  fact  when  he  arose.  It  was  a 
pleasant  morning,  the  sun  was  rising  over  the  notched 
horizon  of  the  tumbling  ocean,  the  breeze  was  blowing,  the 
surf  on  the  bar  was  frothing  and  roaring  cheerily — and 
it  was  his  birthday.  The  morning,  the  sunrise,  the  surf 
and  all  the  rest  were  pleasant  to  contemplate — his  age  was 
not.  So  he  decided  not  to  contemplate  it.  Instead  he 
went  out  and  hoisted  at  the  top  of  the  short  pole  on  the 


42  "SHAVINGS" 


edge  of  the  bluff  the  flag  he  had  set  there  on  the  day  when 
the  United  States  declared  war  against  the  Hun.  He 
hoisted  it  every  fine  morning  and  he  took  it  in  every  night. 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  watching  the  red,  white  and 
blue  flapping  bravely  in  the  morning  sunshine,  then  he  went 
back  into  his  little  kitchen  at  the  rear  of  the  workshop  and 
set  about  cooking  his  breakfast.  The  kitchen  was  about 
as  big  as  a  good-sized  packing  box  and  Jed,  standing  over 
the  oilstove,  could  reach  any  shelf  in  sight  without  moving. 
He  cooked  his  oatmeal  porridge,  boiled  his  egg  and  then 
sat  down  at  the  table  in  the  next  room — his  combined 
living  and  dining-room  and  not  very  much  bigger  than  the 
kitchen — to  eat.  When  he  had  finished,  he  washed  the 
dishes,  walked  up  to  the  post  office  for  the  mail  and  then, 
entering  the  workshop,  took  up  the  paint  brush  and  the 
top  sailor-man  of  the  pile  beside  him  and  began  work. 
This,  except  on  Sundays,  was  his  usual  morning  routine. 
It  varied  little,  except  that  he  occasionally  sawed  or 
whittled  instead  of  painted,  or,  less  occasionally  still,  boxed 
some  of  his  wares  for  shipment. 

During  the  forenoon  he  had  some  visitors.  A  group  of 
summer  people  from  the  hotel  came  in  and,  after  pawing 
over  and  displacing  about  half  of  the  movable  stock,  bought 
ten  or  fifteen  dollars'  worth  and  departed.  Mr.  Winslow 
had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  them  burst  into  a  shout  of 
laughter  as  they  emerged  into  the  yard  and  the  shrill  voice 
of  one  of  the  females  in  the  party  rose  above  the  hilarity 
with:  "Isn't  he  the  weirdest  thing!"  And  an  accompany 
ing  male  voice  appraised  him  as  "Some  guy,  believe  me ! 
S-o-o-me  guy!"  Jed  winced  a  little,  but  he  went  on  with 
his  painting.  On  one's  forty-fifth  birthday  one  has  ac 
quired  or  should  have  acquired  a  certain  measure  of  philo 
sophical  resignation. 

Other    customers    or   lookers    came    and    went.     Maud 


"SHAVINGS"  43 


Hunniwell,  Captain  Sam's  daughter,  dropped  in  on  her 
way  to  the  post  office.  The  captain  was  a  widower  and 
Maud  was  his  only  child.  She  was,  therefore,  more  than 
the  apple  of  his  eye,  she  was  a  whole  orchard  of  apples. 
She  was  eighteen,  pretty  and  vivacious,  and  her  father 
made  a  thorough  job  of  spoiling  her.  Not  that  the  spoiling 
had  injured  her  to  any  great  extent,  it  had  not  as  yet,  but 
that  was  Captain  Sam's  good  luck.  Maud  was  wearing  a 
new  dress — she  had  a  new  one  every  week  or  so — and  she 
came  into  the  windmill  shop  to  show  it.  Of  course  she 
would  have  denied  that  that  was  the  reason  for  her  coming, 
but  the  statement  stands,  nevertheless.  She  and  Jed  were 
great  chums  and  had  been  since  she  could  walk.  She  liked 
him,  took  his  part  when  she  heard  him  criticized  or  made 
fun  of,  and  was  always  prettily  confidential  and  friendly 
when  they  were  alone  together.  Of  course  there  was  a 
touch  or  superiority  and  patronage  in  her  friendship.  She 
should  not  be  blamed  for  this ;  all  Orham,  consciously  or 
unconsciously,  patronized  Jed  Winslow. 

She  came  into  the  inner  shop  and  sat  down  upon  the 
same  upturned  box  upon  which  her  father  had  sat  the 
afternoon  before.  Her  first  remark,  after  "good  mornings" 
had  been  exchanged,  was  concerning  the  "Private"  sign 
on  the  inner  side  of  the  door. 

"What  in  the  world  have  you  put  that  sign  inside  here 
for?"  she  demanded. 

Mr.  Winslow  explained,  taking  his  own  deliberate  time 
in  making  the  explanation.  Miss  Hunniwell  wrinkled  her 
dainty  upturned  nose  and  burst  into  a  trill  of  laughter. 

"Oh,  that's  lovely,"  she  declared,  "and  just  like  you, 
besides.  And  do  you  think  Gabe  Bearse  will  go  back  into 
the  other  room  when  he  sees  it?" 

Jed  looked  dreamily  over  his  spectacles  at  the  sign.  "I 
don't  know,"  he  drawled.  "If  I  thought  he'd  go  whererer 


•44  "SHAVINGS" 


that  sign  was  I  ain't  sure  but  I'd  tack  it  on  the  cover  of 
the  well  out  in  the  yard  yonder." 

His  fair  visitor  laughed  again.  "Why,  Jed,"  she  ex 
claimed.  "You  wouldn't  want  to  drown  him,  would  you?" 

Jed  seemed  to  reflect.  "No-o,"  he  answered,  slowly, 
"don't  know's  I  would — not  in  my  well,  anyhow." 

Miss  Hunniwell  declared  that  that  was  all  nonsense. 
"You  wouldn't  drown  a  kitten,"  she  said.  "I  know  that 
because  when  Mrs.  Nathaniel  Rogers'  old  white  cat  brought 
all  her  kittens  over  here  the  first  of  this  summer  you 
wouldn't  even  put  them  out  in  the  yard  at  night,  to  say 
nothing  of  drowning  them.  All  six  and  the  mother  cat 
stayed  here  and  fairly  swarmed  over  you  and  ate  you 
out  of  house  and  home.  Father  said  he  believed  they  fed 
at  the  first  table  and  you  were  taking  what  was  left.  It 
was  a  mercy  the  old  cat  decided  to  lead  them  back  to  the 
Rogers'  again  or  I  don't  know  what  might  have  become  of 
you  by  this  time." 

Jed  seemed  to  be  thinking;  there  was  a  reminiscent 
twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"The  old  cat  didn't  lead  'em  back,"  he  said.  "Nathaniel 
took  'em  back.  Didn't  I  ever  tell  you  about  that  ?" 

"No,  you  didn't.  You  know  you  didn't.  Mr.  Rogers 
took  them  back?  I  can't  believe  it.  He  told  everywhere 
about  town  that  he  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  the  whole  family 
and,  as  you  and  the  cats  seemed  to  be  mutually  happy  to 
gether,  he  wasn't  going  to  disturb  you.  He  thought  it  was 
a.  great  joke  on  you.  And  he  took  them  back  himself? 
Why?" 

Mr.  Winslow  rubbed  his  chin.  "I  don't  know's  I'd  ought 
to  say  anything  about  it,"  he  said.  "I  haven't  afore.  I 
wouldn't  interfere  with  Nate's  sales  for  anything." 

"Sales?  Sales  of  what?  Oh,  you  mean  thing!  Don't 
be  so  provoking!  Tell  me  the  whole  story  this  minute." 


"SHAVINGS"  45 


Jed  painted  a  moment  or  two.  Then  he  said:  "We-ell, 
Maud,  you  see  those  kittens  got  to  be  kind  of  a  nuisance. 
They  was  cunnin'  and  cute  and  all  that,  but  they  was  so 
everlastin'  lively  and  hungry  that  they  didn't  give  me  much 
of  a  chance.  I  was  only  one,  you  see,  and  they  had  a 
majority  vote  every  time  on  who  should  have  the  bed  and 
the  chairs  and  the  table  and  one  thing  or  'nother.  If  I 
sat  down  I  sat  on  a  cat.  If  I  went  to  bed  I  laid  down 
on  cats,  and  when  I  turned  them  out  and  turned  in  myself 
they  came  and  laid  down  on  me.  I  slept  under  fur  blankets 

most  of  June.     And  as  for  eatin' Well,  every  time  I 

tooked  meat  or  fish  they  sat  down  in  a  circle  and  whooped 
for  some.  When  I  took  it  off  the  fire  and  put  it  in  a  plate 
on  the  table,  I  had  to  put  another  plate  and  a — a  plane  or 
somethin'  heavy  on  top  of  it  or  they'd  have  had  it  sartin 
sure.  Then  when  I  sat  down  to  eat  it  they  formed  a 
circle  again  like  a  reg'lar  band  and  tuned  up  and  hollered. 
Lord  a-mercy,  how  they  did  holler!  And  if  one  of  the 
kitten*  stopped,  run  out  of  wind  or  got  a  sore  throat  or 
anything,  the  old  cat  would  bite  it  to  set  it  goin'  again. 
She  wan't  goin'  to  have  any  shirkin'  in  her  orchestra.  I 
ate  to  music,  as  you  might  say,  same  as  I've  read  they  do 
up  to  Boston  restaurants.  And  about  everything  I  did  eat 
was  stuffed  with  cats'  hairs.  Seemed  sometimes  as  if  those 
kittens  was  solid  fur  all  the  way  through ;  they  never  could 
have  shed  all  that  hair  from  the  outside.  Somebody  told 
me  that  kittens  never  shed  hair,  'twas  only  full  grown  cats 
did  that.  I  don't  believe  it.  Nate  Rogers'  old  maltee 
never  shed  all  that  alone;  allowin'  her  a  half  barrel,  there 
was  all  of  another  barrel  spread  around  the  premises. 
No-o,  those  cats  was  a  good  deal  of  a  nuisance.  Um-hm. 
.  .  .  Yes,  they  was.  .  .  ." 

He  paused  and,  apparently  having  forgotten  that  he  was 
in  the  middle  of  a  story,  began  to  whistle  lugubriously  and 


46  "SHAVINGS" 


to  bend  all  his  other  energies  to  painting.  Miss  Hunniwell, 
who  had  laughed  until  her  eyes  were  misty,  wiped  them 
with  her  handkerchief  and  commanded  him  to  go  on. 

"Tell  me  the  rest  of  it,"  she  insisted.  "How  did  you  get 
rid  of  them?  How  did  Mr.  Rogers  come  to  take  them 
back?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  why,  you  see,  I  went  over  to  Nate's 
three  or  four  times  and  told 'him  his  cat  and  kittens  were 
here  and  I  didn't  feel  right  to  deprive  him  of  'em  any 
longer.  He  said  never  mind,  I  could  keep  'em  long  as  I 
wanted  to.  I  said  that  was  about  as  long  as  I  had  kept 
'em.  Then  he  said  he  didn't  know's  he  cared  about  ever 
havin'  'em  again;  said  he  and  his  wife  had  kind  of  lost 
their  taste  for  cats,  seemed  so.  I — well,  I  hinted  that, 
long  as  the  tribe  was  at  my  house  I  wan't  likely  to  have  a 
chance  to  taste  much  of  anything,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  have 
much  effect.  Then " 

"Yes,  yes ;  go  on !  go  on !" 

"Oh.  .  .  .  Then  one  day  Nate  he  happened  to  be  in 
here — come  to  borrow  somethin',  some  tool  seems  to  me 
'twas — and  the  cats  was  climbin'  round  promiscuous  same 
as  usual.  And  one  of  the  summer  women  came  in  while 
he  was  here,  wanted  a  mill  for  her  little  niece  or  somethin'. 
And  she  saw  one  of  the  animals  and  she  dropped  every 
thing  else  and  sang  out :  'Oh,  what  a  beautiful  kitten ! 
What  unusual  coloring!  May  I  see  it?'  Course  she  was 
seein'  it  already,  but  I  judged  she  meant  could  she  handle 
it,  so  I  tried  to  haul  the  critter  loose  from  my  leg — there 
was  generally  one  or  more  of  'em  shinnin'  over  me  some 
where.  It  squalled  when  I  took  hold  of  it  and  she  says: 
'Oh,  it  doesn't  want  to  come,  does  it!  It  must  have  a 
very  affectionate  disposition  to  be  so  attached  to  you.' 
Seemed  to  me  'twas  attached  by  its  claws  more'n  its  dis 
position,  but  I  pried  it  loose  and  handed  it  to  her.  Then 


'SHAVINGS"  47 


she  says  again,  'What  unusual  colorin'!  Will  you  sell  this 
one  to  me  ?  I'll  give  you  five  dollars  for  it.'  " 

He  stopped  again.  Another  reminder  from  Miss  Hunni- 
well  was  necessary  to  make  him  continue. 

"And  you  sold  one  of  those  kittens  for  five  dollars?"  she 
cried. 

"No-o." 

"You  didn't  ?     Why,  you  foolish  man  !     Why  not  ?" 

"I  never  had  a  chance.  Afore  I  could  say  a  word  Nate 
Rogers  spoke  up  and  said  the  kittens  belonged  to  him. 
Then  she  saw  another  one  that  she  hadn't  seen  afore  and 
she  says :  'Oh,  that  one  has  more  unusual  colorin's  even 
than  this.  I  never  saw  such  color  in  a  cat.'  Course  she 
meant  on  a  cat  but  we  understood  what  she  meant.  'Are 
they  a  very  rare  breed?'  she  asked.  Nate  said  they  was 
and "  ' 

Miss  Hunniwell  interrupted.  "But  they  weren't,  were 
they?"  she  cried.  "I  never  knew  they  were  anything  more 
than  plain  tabby." 

Jed  shook  his  head.  "Nate  said  they  was,"  he  went  on 
solemnly.  "He  said  they  were  awful  rare.  Then  she 
wanted  to  know  would  he  sell  one  for  five  dollars.  He 
said  no,  he  couldn't  think  of  it." 

"Why,  the  greedy  old  thing !" 

"And  so  he  and  she  had  it  back  and  forth  and  finally 
they  struck  a  bargain  at  seven  dollars  for  the  one  that 
looked  most  like  a  crazy  quilt." 

"Seven  dollars  for  a  cat?  What  color  was  it,  for  good 
ness'  sake?" 

"Oh,  all  kinds,  seemed  so.  Black  and  white  and  maltee 
and  blue  and  red  and  green " 

"Green!  What  are  you  talking  about?  Who  ever  saw 
a  green  cat?" 

"This   woman   saw   one   that   was   part   ereen   and   she 


4S  "SHAVINGS" 


bought  it.  Then  she  said  she'd  take  it  right  along  in  her 
car.  Said  she  had  a  friend  that  was  as  loony  about  cats 
as  she  was  and  she  was  goin'  to  fetch  her  right  down  the 
very  next  day.  And  a  couple  of  hours  after  she'd  gone 
Nate  and  his  boy  came  back  with  a  clothes  basket  with  a 
board  over  the  top  and  loaded  in  the  balance  of  the  family 
and  went  off  with  'em.  I  ain't  seen  a  hair  of  'em  since — 
no,  I  won't  say  that  quite,  but  I  ain't  seen  them." 

"And  didn't  he  give  you  any  of  the  seven  dollars?" 

"No-o." 

"But  you  had  been  feeding  those  kittens  and  their 
mother  for  weeks." 

"Ye-es." 

"But  didn't  you  ask  for  anything?" 

"We-11,  I  told  Nate  he  might  maybe  kave  one  of  the 
kittens,  so's  I  could  have  a — er — souvenir  of  the  visit,  but 
he  wouldn't  do  it.  Said  those  kittens  was  rare  and — er — 
precious,  or  words  to  that  effect.  He  didn't  intend  to  let 
another  go  as  cheap  as  he  had  that  one." 

"Oh.  ...  I  see.  I  remember  now;  I  heard  some  one 
saying  something,  early  in  July,  about  the  sign  on  the 
Rogers'  front  fence.  'Rare  Cats  for  Sale'  they  said  it  was. 
I  think.  Of  course,  I  never  thought  of  those  kittens.  He 
must  have  sold  them  all,  for  the  sign  isn't  there  now." 

Jed  whistled  a  few  bars.  "I  don't  hardly  think  he's  sold 
'em,"  he  said.  "I  presume  likely  he's  just  gone  out  of  the 
business." 

"I  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't  sell  them.  Green  cats 
ought  to  sell  quickly  enough,  I  should  think.  Were  they 
green,  honest  and  truly,  Jed'" 

Mr.  Winslow  nodded. 

"They  were  that  mornin',"  he  drawled,  solemnly. 

"That  morning?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"We-11,  you  see,  Maud,  those  kittens  were  into  everything 


"SHAVINGS"  49 


and  over  everything  most  of  the  time.  Four  of  'em  had 
got  in  here  early  afore  I  came  downstairs  that  day  and 
had  been  playin'  hide  and  hoot  amongst  my  paint  pots. 
They  was  green  in  spots,  sure  enough,  but  I  had  my  doubts 
as  to  its  bein'  fast  color." 

Maud  laughed  joyfully  over  the  secret  of  the  green 
pussies. 

"I  wish  I  might  have  seen  that  woman's  face  after  the 
colors  began  to  wear  off  her  'rare'  kitten,"  she  said. 

Jed  smiled  slightly.  "Nathan  saw  it,"  he  said.  "I 
understood  he  had  to  take  back  the  kitten  and  give  up  the 
seven  dollars.  He  don't  hardly  speak  to  me  nowadays. 
Seems  to  think  'twas  my  fault.  I  don't  hardly  think  'twas, 
do  you?" 

Miss  Hunniwell's  call  lasted  almost  an  hour.  Besides  a 
general  ch&t  concerning  Leander  Babbitt's  voluntary  en 
listment,  tf"°.  subject  which  all  Orham  had  discussed  since 
the  previous  afternoon,  she  had  a  fresh  bit  of  news.  The 
government  had  leased  a  large  section  of  land  along  the 
bay  at  East  Harniss,  the  next  village  to  Orham  and  seven 
or  eight  miles  distant,  and  there  was  to  be  a  military  avia 
tion  camp  there. 

"Oh,  it's  true !"  she  declared,  emphatically.  "Father  has 
known  that  the  Army  people  have  been  thinking  of  it  for 
some  time,  but  it  was  really  decided  and  the  leases  signed 
only  last  Saturday.  They  will  begin  building  the  barracks 
and  the  buildings — the — oh,  what  do  they  call  those  big 
sheds  they  keep  the  aeroplanes  in?" 

"The  hangars,"  said  Winslow,  promptly. 

"Yes,  that's  it.  They  will  begin  building  those  right 
away."  She  paused  and  looked  at  him  curiously.  "How 
did  you  know  they  called  them  hangars,  Jed  ?"  she  asked. 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  I've  read  about  'em  in  the  newspapers, 


50  "SHAVINGS" 


that's  all.  .  .  .H-u-u-m. .  .  .So  we'll  have  aeroplanes  flyin' 
around  here  pretty  soon,  I  suppose.  Well,  well!" 

"Yes.  And  there'll  be  lots  and  lots  of  the  flying  men — 
the  what-do-you-call-'ems — aviators,  and  officers  in  uni 
form — and  all  sorts.  What  fun!  I'm  just  crazy  about 
uniforms !" 

Her  eyes  snapped.  Jed,  in  his  quiet  way,  seemed  ex 
cited,  too.  He  was  gazing  absently  out  of  the  window  as 
if  he  saw,  in  fancy,  a  procession  of  aircraft  flying  over 
Orham  flats. 

"They'll  be  flyin'  up  out  there,"  he  said,  musingly. 
"And  I'll  see  'em—/  will.  Sho !" 

Miss  Hunniwell  regarded  him  mischievously.  "Jed,"  she 
asked,  "would  you  like  to  be  an  aviator?" 

Jed's  answer  was  solemnly  given.  "I'm  afraid  I 
shouldn't  be  much  good  at  the  job,"  he  drawled. 

His  visitor  burst  into  another  laugh.  He  looked  at  her 
over  his  glasses. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  nothing;  I — I  was  just  thinking  of  you  in  a  uniform, 
that's  all." 

Jed  smiled  his  slow,  fleeting  smile. 

"I  guess  likely  I  would  be  pretty  funny,"  he  admitted. 
"Any  Germans  I  met  would  probably  die  laughin'  and  that 
might  help  along  some." 

But  after  Miss  Hunniwell  had  gone  he  sat  for  some 
minutes  gazing  out  of  the  window,  the  wistful,  dreamy 
look  on  his  lean,  homely  face.  Then  he  sighed,  and  re 
sumed  his  painting. 

That  afternoon,  about  half  past  five,  he  was  still  at  his 
task  when,  hearing  the  doorbell  ring,  he  rose  and  went  into 
the  front  shop.  To  his  astonishment  the  shop  was  empty. 
He  looked  about  for  the  expected  customer  or  caller, 
whoever  he  or  she  might  be,  and  saw  no  one.  He  stepped 


"Jed,"  she  asked,  "would  you  like  to  be  an  aviator?" 


"SHAVINGS"  51 


to  the  window  and  looked  out,  but  there  was  no  one  on 
the  steps  or  in  the  yard.  He  made  up  his  mind  that 
he  must  have  dreamed  of  the  bell-ringing  and  was  turning 
back  to  the  inner  room,  when  a  voice  said: 

"Please,  are  you  the  windmill  man?" 

Jed  started,   turned  again,   and   stared   about  him. 

"Please,  sir,  here  I  am,"  said  the  voice. 

Jed,  looking  down,  instead  of  up  or  on  a  level,  saw  his 
visitor  then.  That  is,  he  saw  a  tumbled  shock  of  curls  and 
a  pair  of  big  round  eyes  looking  up  at  him  over  a  stock 
of  weather  vanes. 

"Hello!"  he  exclaimed,  in  surprise. 

The  curls  and  eyes  came  out  from  behind  the  stack  of 
vanes.  They  were  parts  of  a  little  girl,  and  the  little  girl 
made  him  a  demure  little  courtesy. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said. 

Jed  regarded  her  in  silence  for  a  moment.  Then,  "Why, 
I'm  fair  to  middlin'  smart  just  at  present,"  he  drawled. 
"How  do  you  find  yourself  to-day  ?" 

The  young  lady's  answer  was  prompt  and  to  the  point. 

"I'm  nicely,  thank  you,"  she  replied,  and  added:  "I  was 
sick  at  my  stomach  yesterday,  though." 

This  bit  of  personal  information  being  quite  unexpected, 
Mr.  Winslow  scarcely  knew  what  comment  to  make  in 
reply  to  it. 

"Sho!"  he  exclaimed.     "Was  you,  though?" 

"Yes.  Mamma  says  she  is  'clined  to  think  it  was  the 
two  whole  bananas  and  the  choc'late  creams,  but  /  think  it 
was  the  fried  potatoes.  I  was  sick  twice — no,  three  times. 
Please,  I  asked  you  something.  Are  you  the  windmill 
man?" 

Jed,  by  this  time  very  much  amused,  looked  her  over 
once  more.  She  was  a  pretty  little  thing,  although  just 
at  this  time  it  is  doubtful  if  any  of  her  family  or  those 


52  "SHAVINGS" 


closely  associated  with  her  would  have  admitted  it.  Her 
face  was  not  too  clean,  her  frock  was  soiled  and  mussed, 
her  curls  had  been  blown  into  a  tangle  and  there  were 
smooches,  Jed  guessed  them  to  be  blackberry  stains,  on 
her  hands,  around  her  mouth  and  even  across  her  small 
nose.  She  had  a  doll,  its  raiment  in  about  the  same  con 
dition  as  her  own,  tucked  under  one  arm.  Hat  she  had 
none. 

Mr.  Winslow  inspected  her  in  his  accustomed  deliberate 
fashion. 

"Guess  you've  been  havin'  a  pretty  good  time,  haven't 
you?"  he  inquired. 

The  small  visitor's  answer  was  given  with  dignity. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Will  you  please  tell  me  if  you  are  the 
windmill  man?" 

Jed  accepted  the  snub  with  outward  humility  and  inward 
appreciation. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  admitted;  "I  presume  likely  I'm  the 
wind-nill  man.  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  this 
evenin' ?" 

Apparently  there  was,  for  the  child,  untucking  the  doll 
from  beneath  her  right  arm  and  tucking  it  under  the  left, 
pointed  her  right  hand  at  a  wooden  weather-vane  in  the 
shape  of  a  sperm  whale  and  asked: 

"Please,  does  that  fish  go  'round?" 

"Go  'round?    Go  'round  where?" 

"I  mean  does  it  go  'round  and  'round  on  a  stick?" 

"Cal'late  it  does  when  it  has  a  chance." 

"And  does  it  make  the  wind  blow  no'theast  by  no'th  and 
— and  like  that?" 

"Eh?     Make  the  wind  blow — how?" 

"I  mean  does  it  make  the  wind  blow  different  ways, 
no'theast  by  no'th  and  cantin'  'round  to  the  sou-east  and — 
and  those  ways?  Captain  Hedge  has  got  a  fish  up  on  his 


'SHAVINGS"  53 


barn  that  used  to  do  that,  but  now  it  won't  'cause  he 
cal'lates  it's  rusted  fast.  He  said  he  guessed  he  would 
have  to  be  getting  a  new  one.  When  I  saw  the  fishes  out 
in  your  yard  I  thought  about  it  and  I  thought  I  would 
come  in  and  see  if  you  had  the  right  kind.  Is  this  one 
a — a  gunfish  ?" 

"A  which  fish  ?" 

"A  gunfish.  No,  that  isn't  it.  A — a  swordfish,  that's  it. 
Captain  Hedge's  is  a  swordfish." 

"We-11,  that  particular  one  got  a  wrong  start  and  ended 
up  by  bein'  a  whale,  but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we  could 
find  a  swordfish  if  we  looked.  Yes,  here's  one.  Think 
that  would  do?" 

The  child  looked  it  over  very  carefully. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  think  it  would.  If  you're  sure  it 
would  make  the  wind  go  right." 

"We-11,  I  guess  likely  I  could  guarantee  that  fish  would 
go  'most  any  way  the  wind  did,  unless  it  should  take  a 
notion  to  blow  straight  up  and  down,  which  don't  happen 
often.  So  you  know  Cap'n  Hedge,  do  you?  Relation 
of  his,  are  you?  Visitin'  there?" 

"No.  Mamma  and  I  are  boarding  at  Mrs.  Smalley's, 
but  I  go  over  to  call  on  Captain  Hedge  'most  every  day." 

"Sho!  Want  to  know!  Well,  that's  nice  and  sociable. 
So  you're  boardin'  at  Luretta  Smalley's.  My!  you're  con- 
sider'ble  ways  from  home,  ain't  you?  Is  your  mamma 
with  you?" 

For  the  first  time  the  youthful  caller's  poise  seemed  a 
trifle  shaken. 

"No-o  .  .  .  no,"  she  stammered,  and  added,  hastily: 
"How  much  is  this  fish,  please?" 

"I  generally  sell  that  sort  of  fish  for  about  two  dollars." 
He  looked  out  of  the  window,  hummed  a  tune,  and  then 
added :  "Let's  see,  what  did  you  say  your  name  was  ?" 


54  "SHAVINGS" 


"I  didn't,  but  it's  Barbara  Armstrong.  How  much  did 
you  say  the  fish  was  ?" 

"Eh?  ...  Oh,  two  dollars." 

Miss  Armstrong  looked  very  much  disappointed. 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  sighed.  "I  didn't  know  it  would  be  as 
much  as  that.  I — I'm  'fraid  I  can't  get  it." 

"So?  That's  too  bad.  What  was  you  cal'latin'  to  do 
with  it,  if  you  did  get  it?" 

"I  was  going  to  give  it  to  Captain  Hedge.  He  misses 
his,  now  that  it's  rusted  so  fast  that  it  won't  go.  But  I 
can't  get  it.  I  haven't  got  but  fourteen  cents,  ten  that 
Mamma  gave  me  this  morning  for  being  a  good  girl  and 
taking  my  medicine  nice  yesterday,  and  four  that  Mrs. 
Smalley  gave  me  for  getting  the  eggs  last  week.  And  two 
dollars  is  ever  so  much  more  than  fourteen  cents,  isn't  it?" 

"Hum.  .  .  .  'Tis  a  little  more,  that's  right.  It's  con 
sidered  more  by  the — um — er — best  authorities.  Hum 
...  er  ...  h-u-u-m.  Sometimes,  though,  I  do  take  off  a 
little  somethin'  for  spot  cash.  You'd  pay  spot  cash,  I 
presume  likely,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

"I — I  don't  know  what  spot  cash  ;s.  I'd  pay  fourteen 
cents." 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin.  "We-e-11,"  he  drawled,  gravely, 
"I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  hardly  knock  off  all  that  that  comes 
to.  But,"  taking  another  and  much  smaller  vane  from  a 
shelf,  "there's  an  article,  not  quite  so  big,  that  I  usually  get 
fifty  cents  for.  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

The  child  took  the  miniature  swordfish  and  inspected  it 
carefully. 

"It's  a  baby  one,  isn't  it,"  she  observed.  "Will  it  tell 
wind  just  as  good  as  the  big  one?" 

"Tell  wind?  Hum!  .  .  .  Don't  know's  I  ever  heard  it 
put  just  that  way  afore.  But  a  clock  tells  time,  so  I  sup- 


"SHAVINGS"  55 


pose  there's  no  reason  why  a  vane  shouldn't  tell  wind. 
Yes,  I  guess  'twill  tell  wind  all  right." 

"Then  I  think  it  might  do."  She  seemed  a  little  doubtful. 
"Only,"  she  added,  "fifty  cents  is  lots  more  than  fourteen, 
isn't  it  ?" 

Mr.  Winslow  admitted  that  it  was.  "But  I  tell  you," 
he  said,  after  another  period  of  reflection,  "seein'  as  it's 
you  I'll  make  a  proposal  to  you.  Cap'n  Eri  Hedge  is  a 
pretty  good  friend  of  mine,  same  as  he  is  of  yours.  Sup 
pose  you  and  I  go  in  partners.  You  put  in  your  fourteen 
cents  and  I'll  put  in  the  rest  of  the  swordfish.  Then  you 
can  take  it  to  Cap'n  Eri  and  tell  him  that  we're  givin'  it 
to  him  together.  You  just  consider  that  plan  for  a  minute 
now,  will  you?" 

Miss  Armstrong  looked  doubtful. 

"I — I  don't  know  as  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 
"What  did  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Why,  consider  the  plan.  You  know  what  'consider' 
means,  don't  you?" 

"I  know  a  Mother  Goose  with  it  in.  That  one  about 
the  piper  and  the  cow: 

'He  took  up  his  pipes  and  he  played  her  a  tune, 
Consider,  old  cow,  consider.' 

But  I  don't  know  as  I  surely  know  what  he  wanted  the 
cow  to  do?  Does  'consider'  mean  see  if  you  like  it?" 

"That's  the  idea.  Think  it  over  and  see  if  you'd  like  to 
go  halves  with  me  givin'  the  fish  to  Cap'n  Hedge." 

The  curls  moved  vigorously  up  and  down. 

"I  think  I  should,"  she  decided. 

"Good !     Now  you  wait  and  I'll  do  it  up." 

He  wrapped  the  toy  vane  in  a  piece  of  paper  and  handed 
it  to  his  small  patron.  She  gravely  produced  a  miniature 


56  "SHAVINGS" 


velvet  purse  with  the  remnants  of  some  bead  fringe  hanging 
to  its  lower  edge  and  laid  a  dime  and  four  pennies  on  the 
top  of  a  packing  case  between  them.  It  was  growing  dark 
in  the  shop  and  Jed  lighted  one  of  the  bracket  lamps. 
Returning,  he  found  the  coins  laid  in  a  row  and  Miss  Arm 
strong  regarding  them  somewhat  soberly. 

"There  isn't  any  more  than  fourteen,  is  there  ?"  she  asked. 
"I  mean — I  mean  fourteen  cents  takes  all  of  it,  doesn't  it  ?" 

Jed  looked  at  her  face.     His  eye  twinkled. 

"Well,  suppose  it  didn't?"  he  asked.     "What  then?" 

She  hesitated.  "Why,"  she  stammered,  "if — if  there 
was  one  left  over  I — maybe  I  could  buy  something  to 
morrow  at  the  candy  store.  Not  to-day,  'cause  I  told 
Mamma  I  wouldn't  to-day  'cause  I  was  sick  at  my  stomach 
yesterday — but  to-morrow  I  could." 

Mr.  Winslow  carefully  counted  the  coins  and  then, 
spreading  them  out  on  his  big  palm,  showed  them  to  her. 

"There!"  he  said.  "Now  you've  given  me  the  fourteen 
cents.  I've  got  'em,  haven't  I?" 

Miss  Barbara  solemnly  nodded. 

"Yes,"  continued  Jed.  "Now  I'll  put  'em  back  in  your 
wallet  again.  There  they  are,  shut  up  in  the  wallet.  Now 
you  put  the  wallet  in  your  pocket.  Now  take  your  fish 
bundle  under  your  arm.  There!  now  everything's  settled. 
You've  got  the  fish,  haven't  you?  Sartin'.  Yes,  and  I've 
been  paid  for  it,  haven't  I?" 

The  child  stared  at  him. 

"But— but "  she  began. 

"Now — now  don't  let's  argue  about  it,"  pleaded  Jed, 
plaintively.  "Argum  always  gives  me  the — er — epizootic 
or  somethin'.  You  saw  me  have  the  money  right  in  my 
hand.  It's  all  settled;  think  it  over  and  see  if  it  ain't. 
You've  got  the  fish  and  I've  had  the  fourteen  cents.  Now 
run  right  along  home  and  don't  get  lost.  Good-night." 


"SHAVINGS"  57 


He  led  her  gently  to  the  door  and  closed  it  behind  her. 
Then,  smiling  and  shaking  his  head,  he  returned  to  the 
inner  shop,  where  he  lit  the  lamps  and  sat  down  for  another 
bit  of  painting  before  supper.  But  that  bit  was  destined 
not  to  be  done  that  night.  He  had  scarcely  picked  up  his 
brush  before  the  doorbell  rang  once  more.  Returning  to 
the  outer  room,  he  found  his  recent  visitor,  the  swordfish 
under  one  arm  and  the  doll  under  the  other,  standing  in 
the  aisle  between  the  stacked  mills  and  vanes  and  looking, 
so  it  seemed  to  him,  considerably  perturbed. 

"Well,  well!"  he  exclaimed.  "Back  again  so  soon? 
What's  the  matter ;  forget  somethin',  did  you  ?" 

Miss  Armstrong  shook  her  head. 

"No-o,"  she  said.     "But— but " 

"Yes?    But  what?" 

"Don't  you  think — don't  you  think  it  is  pretty  dark  for 
little  girls  to  be  out?" 

Jed  looked  at  her,  stepped  to  the  door,  opened  it  and 
looked  out,  and  then  turned  back  again. 

"Why,"  he  admitted,  "it  is  gettin'  a  little  shadowy  in  the 
corners,  maybe.  It  will  be  darker  in  an  hour  or  so.  But 
you  think  it's  too  dark  for  little  girls  already,  eh?" 

She  nodded.  "I  don't  think  Mamma  would  like  me  to 
be  out  when  it's  so  awful  dark,"  she  said. 

"Hum !  .  .  .  Hum.  .  .  .  Does  your  mamma  know  where 
you  are?" 

The  young  lady's  toe  marked  a  circle  on  the  shop  floor. 

"No-o,"  she  confessed,  "I — I  guess  she  doesn't,  not  just 
exactly." 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised.  And  so  you've  come  back  be 
cause  you  was  afraid,  eh  ?" 

She  swallowed  hard  and  edged  a  little  nearer  to  him. 

"No-o,"  she  declared,  stoutly,  "I — I  wasn't  afraid,  not 


58  "SHAVINGS" 


very;  but — but  I  thought  the — the  swordfish  was  pretty 
heavy  to  carry  all  alone  and — and  so " 

Jed  laughed  aloud,  something  that  he  rarely  did. 

"Good  for  you,  sis!"  he  exclaimed.  "Now  you  just 
wait  until  I  get  my  hat  and  we'll  carry  that  heavy  fish 
home  together." 

Miss  Armstrong  looked  decidedly  happier. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  she  said.  "And — and,  if  you 
please,  my  name  is  Barbara." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  Smalley  residence,  where  Mrs.  Luretta  Smalley, 
relict  of  the  late  Zenas  Tv  accommodated  a  few 
"paying  guests,"  was  nearly  a  mile  from  the  windmill 
shop  and  on  the  Orham  "lower  road."  Mr.  Winslow  and 
his  new  acquaintance  took  the  short  cuts,  through  by-paths 
and  across  fields,  and  the  young  lady  appeared  to  have  thor 
oughly  recovered  from  her  misgivings  concerning  the  dark 
— in  reality  it  was  scarcely  dusk — and  her  doubts  concern 
ing  her  ability  to  carry  the  "heavy"  swordfish  without  help. 
At  all  events  she  insisted  upon  carrying  it  alone,  telling  her 
companion  that  she  thought  perhaps  he  had  better  not 
touch  it  as  it  was  so  very,  very  brittle  and  might  get  broken, 
and  consoling  him  by  offering  to  permit  him  to  carry 
Petunia,  which  fragrant  appellation,  it  appeared,  was  the 
name  of  the  doll. 

"I  named  her  Petunia  after  a  flower,"  she  explained. 
"I  think  she  looks  like  a  flower,  don't  you?" 

If  she  did  it  was  a  wilted  one.  However,  Miss  Arm 
strong  did  not  wait  for  comment  on  the  part  of  her  escort, 
but  chatted  straight  on.  Jed  learned  that  her  mother's 
name  was  Mrs.  Ruth  Phillips  Armstrong.  "It  used  to  be 
Mrs.  Seymour  Armstrong,  but  it  isn't  now,  because  Papa's 
name  was  Doctor  Seymour  Armstrong  and  ha  died,  you 
know."  And  they  lived  in  a  central  Connecticut  city,  but 
perhaps  they  weren't  going  to  live  there  any  more  because 
Mamma  had  sold  the  house  and  didn't  know  exactly  what 
to  do.  And  they  had  been  in  Orham  ever  since  before  the 

59 


60  "SHAVINGS" 


Fourth  of  July,  and  they  liked  it  ever  so  much,  it  was  so 
quaint  and — and  "franteek" 

Jed  interrupted  here.  "So  quaint  and  what?"  he  de 
manded. 

"Franteek."  Miss  Barbara  herself  seemed  a  little  doubt 
ful  of  the  word.  At  any  rate  Mamma  said  it  was  some 
thing  like  that,  and  it  meant  they  liked  it  anyway.  So 
Mr.  Winslow  was  left  to  ponder  whether  "antique"  or 
"unique"  was  intended  and  to  follow  his  train  of  thought 
wherever  it  chanced  to  lead  him,  while  the  child  prattled 
on.  They  came  in  sight  of  the  Smalley  front  gate  and  Jed 
came  out  of  his  walking  trance  to  hear  her  say : 

"Anyway,  we  like  it  all  but  the  sal'ratus  biscuits  and 
the  coffee  and  they  are  dreadful.  Mamma  thinks  it's  made 
of  chickenry — the  coffee,  I  mean." 

At  the  gate  Jed's  "queerness,"  or  shyness,  came  upon 
him.  The  idea  of  meeting  Mrs.  Armstrong  or  even  the 
members  of  the  Smalley  family  he  shrank  from.  Barbara 
invited  him  to  come  in,  but  he  refused  even  to  accompany 
her  to  the  door. 

"I'll  just  run  along  now,"  he  said,  hurriedly.  "Good 
night." 

The  child  put  out  her  hand.  "Good  night,"  she  said. 
"Thank  you  very  much  for  helping  me  carry  the  fish  home. 
I'm  coming  to  see  you  again  some  day." 

She  scampered  up  the  walk.  Jed,  waiting  in  the  shadow 
of  the  lilac  bushes  by  the  fence,  saw  her  rattle  the  latch 
of  the  door,  saw  the  door  open  and  the  child  caught  up  in 
the  arms  of  a  woman,  who  cried :  "Oh,  Babbie,  dear,  where 
have  you  been?  Mamma  was  so  frightened!" 

He  smiled  over  the  memory  of  the  little  girl's  visit  more 
than  once  that  evening.  He  was  very  fond  of  children  and 
their  society  did  not  embarrass  or  annoy  him  as  did  the 
company  of  most  grown-ups — strangers,  that  is.  He  re- 


"SHAVINGS"  61 


membered  portions  of  Miss  Barbara's  conversation  and 
determined  to  repeat  them  to  Captain  Sam  Hunniwell,  the 
next  time  the  latter  called. 

And  that  next  time  was  the  following  forenoon.  Captain 
Sam,  on  the  way  to  his  office  at  the  bank,  stopped  his  car 
at  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk  and  came  into  the  shop.  Jed, 
having  finished  painting  wooden  sailors  for  the  present, 
was  boxing  an  assorted  collection  of  mills  and  vanes  to 
be  sent  South,  for  a  certain  demand  for  "Winslow  mills" 
was  developing  at  the  winter  as  well  as  the  summer  resorts. 
It  was  far  from  winter  yet,  but  this  purchaser  was  fore 
handed. 

"Hello,  Jed,"  hailed  the  captain,  "busy  as  usual.  You've 
got  the  busy  bee  a  mile  astern  so  far  as  real  hustlin'  is 
concerned." 

Jed  took  a  nail  from  the  half  dozen  held  between  his 
lips  and  applied  its  point  to  the  box  top.  His  sentences 
for  the  next  few  minutes  were  mumbled  between  nails  and 
punctuated  with  blows  of  the  hammer. 

"The  busy  bee,"  he  mumbled,  "can  sting  other  folks.  He 
don't  get  stung  much  himself.  Collectin'  honey's  easier,  I 
cal'late,  than  collectin'  money." 

Captain  Sam  grunted.  "Are  you  stung  again?"  he  de 
manded.  "Who  did  it  this  time  ?" 

Jed  pointed  with  the  hammer  to  an  envelope  lying  on  a 
pile  of  wooden  crows.  The  captain  took  up  the  envelope 
and  inspected  its  contents. 

'  'We  regret  to  inform  you/  he  read  aloud,  'that  the  Funny  Nov 
elty  Company  of  this  town  went  into  bankruptcy  a  month  ago. 

KOLWAY.'  " 


"Humph  !"  he  sniffed.     "That's  short  and  sweet.     Owed 
you  somethin',  I  presume  likely  ?" 


62  "SHAVINGS" 


Jed  nodded.  "Seventeen  dollars  and  three  cents,"  he 
admitted,  between  the  remaining  nails. 

"Sho!  Well,  if  you  could  get  the  seventeen  dollars 
you'd  throw  off  the  three  cents,  wouldn't  you?" 

"No-o." 

"You  wouldn't?    Why  not?" 

Jed  pried  a  crookedly  driven  nail  out  again  and  substi 
tuted  a  fresh  one. 

"Can't  afford  to,"  he  drawled.  "That's  the  part  I'll  prob 
ably  get." 

"Guess  you're  right.     Who's  this  John  Holway?" 

"Eh.  .  .  .  Why,  when  he  ordered  the  mills  of  me  last 
summer  he  was  president  of  the  Funny  Novelty  Company 
up  there  to  Manchester." 

"Good  Lord !  Well,  I  admire  his  nerve.  How  did  you 
come  to  sell  these — er — Funny  folks,  in  the  first  place?" 

Mr.  Winslow  looked  surprised. 

"Why,  they  wrote  a*id  sent  an  order,"  he  replied. 

"Did,  eh?  And  you  didn't  think  of  lookin'  'em  up  to 
see  whether  they  was  good  for  anything  or  good  for 
nothin'?  Just  sailed  in  and  hurried  off  the  stuff,  I  pre 
sume  likely?" 

Jed  nodded.  "Why — why,  yes,  of  course,"  he  said. 
"You  see,  they  said  they  wanted  it  right  away." 

His  friend  groaned.  "Gracious  king !"  he  exclaimed.  "How 
many  times  have  I  told  you  to  let  me  look  up  credits  for 
you  when  you  get  an  order  from  a  stranger  ?  Well,  there's 
no  use  talkin'  to  you.  Give  me  this  letter.  I'll  see  what 
I  can  squeeze  out  of  your  Funny  friend.  .  .  .  But,  say," 
he  added,  "I  can't  stop  but  a  minute,  and  I  ran  in  to  ask 
you  if  you'd  changed  your  mind  about  rentin'  the  old  house 
here.  If  you  have,  I  believe  I've  got  a  good  tenant  for 
you." 


"SHAVINGS"  63 


Jed  looked  troubled.  He  laid  down  the  hammer  and 
took  the  last  nail  from  his  mouth. 

"Now — now,  Sam,"  he  began,  "you  know — 

"Oh,  I  know  you've  set  your  thick  head  dead  against 
rentin'  it  at  all,  but  that's  silly,  as  I've  told  you  a  thousand 
times.  The  house  is  empty  and  it  doesn't  do  any  house 
good  to  stay  empty.  Course  if  'twas  anybody  but  you, 
Jed  Winslow,  you'd  live  in  it  yourself  instead  of  campin' 
out  in  this  shack  here." 

Jed  sat  down  on  the  box  he  had  just  nailed  and,  taking 
one  long  leg  between  his  big  hands,  pulled  its  knee  up  until 
he  could  have  rested  his  chin  upon  it  without  much  in 
convenience. 

"I  know,  Sam,"  he  drawled  gravely,  "but  that's  the 
trouble — I  ain't  been  anybody  but  me  for  forty-five  years." 

The  captain  smiled,  in  spite  of  his  impatience.  "And 
you  won't  be  anybody  else  for  the  next  forty-five,"  he  said, 
"I  know  that.  But  all  the  same,  bein'  a  practical,  more  or 
less  sane  man  myself,  it  makes  me  nervous  to  see  a  nice, 
attractive,  comfortable  little  house  standin'  idle  while  the 
feller  that  owns  it  eats  and  sleeps  in  a  two-by-four  saw 
mill,  so  to  speak.  And,  not  only  that,  but  won't  let  any 
body  else  live  in  the  house,  either.  I  call  that  a  dog  in  the 
manger  business,  and  crazy  besides." 

The  big  foot  at  the  end  of  the  long  leg  swung  slowly 
back  and  forth.  Mr.  Winslow  looked  absently  at  the  roof. 

"Don't  look  like  that!"  snapped  Captain  Sam.  "Come 
out  of  it !  Wake  up !  It  always  gives  me  the  fidgets  to 
see  you  settin'  gapin'  at  nothin'.  What  are  you  day- 
dreamin'  about  now,  eh?" 

Jed  turned  and  gazed  over  his  spectacles. 

"I  was  thinkin'/'  he  observed,  "that  most  likely  that  dog 
himself  was  crazy.  If  he  wasn't  he  wouldn't  have  got  into 


64  "SHAVINGS" 


the  manger.  I  never  saw  a  dog  that  wanted  to  climb  into 
a  manger,  did  you,  Sam?" 

"Oh,  confound  the  manger  and  the  dog,  too !  Look  here, 
Jed ;  if  I  found  you  a  good  tenant  would  you  rent  'em  that 
house  of  yours?" 

Jed  looked  more  troubled  than  ever. 

"Sam,"  he  began,  "you  know  I'd  do  'most  anything  to 
oblige  you,  but " 

"Oblige  me!  This  ain't  to  oblige  me.  It's  to  oblige 
you." 

"Oh,  then  I  won't  do  it." 

"Well,  then,  'tis  to  oblige  me.  It'll  oblige  me  to  have 
you  show  some  sense.  Come  on,  Jed.  These  people  I've 
got  in  mind  are  nice  people.  They  want  to  find  a  little 
house  and  they've  come  to  me  at  the  bank  for  advice  about 
findin'  it.  It's  a  chance  for  you,  a  real  chance." 

Jed  rocked  back  and  forth.  He  looked  genuinely  wor 
ried. 

"Who  are  they?"  he  asked,  after  a  moment. 

"Can't  name  any  names  yet." 

Another  period  of  reflection.  Then:  "City  folks  or 
Orham  folks?"  inquired  Mr.  Winslow. 

"City  folks." 

Some  of  the  worried  look  disappeared.  Jed  was  plainly 
relieved  and  more  hopeful. 

"Oh,  then  they  won't  want  it,"  he  declared.  "City  folks 
want  to  hire  houses  in  the  spring,  not  along  as  late  in  the 
summer  as  this." 

"These  people  do.  They're  thinkin'  of  livin'  here  in 
Orham  all  the  year  round.  It's  a  first-rate  chance  for  you, 
Jed.  Course,  I  know  you  don't  really  need  the  money, 
perhaps,  but — well,  to  be  real  honest,  I  want  these  folks 
to  stay  in  Orham — they're  the  kind  of  folks  the  town  needs 
— and  I  want  'em  contented.  I  think  they  would  be  con- 


'SHAVINGS"  65 


tented  in  your  house.  You  let  those  Davidsons  from 
Chicago  have  the  place  that  summer,  but  you've  never  let 
anybody  so  much  as  consider  it  since.  What's  the  real 
reason?  You've  told  me  as  much  as  a  dozen,  but  I'll  bet 
anything  you've  never  told  me  the  real  one.  'Twas  some- 
thin'  the  Davidsons  did  you  didn't  like — but  what?" 

Jed's  rocking  back  and  forth  on  the  box  became  almost 
energetic  and  his  troubled  expression  more  than  ever  ap 
parent. 

"Now — now,  Sam,"  he  begged,  "I've  told  you  all  about 
that  ever  and  ever  so  many  times.  There  wasn't  anything, 
really." 

"There  was,  too.     What  was  it?" 

Jed  suffered  in  silence  for  two  or  three  minutes. 

"What  was  the  real  reason?  Out  with  it,"  persisted 
Captain  Hunniwell. 

"Well — well,  'twas — 'twas "  desperately,  "'twas  the 

squeakin'  and — and  squealin'." 

"Squeakin'  and  squealin'?  Gracious  king!  What  are 
you  talkin'  about  ?" 

"Why — the — the  mills,  you  know.  The  mills  and  vanes 
outside  on — on  the  posts  and  the  fence.  They  squeaked 
and — and  sometimes  they  squealed  awful.  And  he  didn't 
like  it." 

"Who  didn't?" 

"Colonel  Davidson.  He  said  they'd  got  to  stop  makin' 
that  noise  and  I  said  I'd  oil  'em  every  day.  And — and  I 
forgot  it." 

"Yes — well,  I  ain't  surprised  to  death,  exactly.  What 
then?" 

"Well — well,  you  see,  they  were  squealin'  worse  than 
usual  one  mornin'  and  Colonel  Davidson  he  came  in  here 
and — and  I  remembered  I  hadn't  oiled  'em  for  three  days. 


66  "SHAVINGS" 


And  I — I  said  how  horrible  the  squealin'  was  and  that  I'd 
oil  'em  right  away  and — and " 

"Well,  go  on !  go  on !" 

"And  when  I  went  out  to  do  it  there  wasn't  any  wind  and 
the  mills  wasn't  goin'  at  all.  You  see,  'twas  his  oldest 
daughter  takin'  her  singin'  lessons  in  the  house  with  the 
window  open." 

Captain  Sam  put  back  his  head  and  shouted.  Jed  looked 
sadly  at  the  floor.  When  the  captain  could  speak  he  asked : 

"And  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  was  the  reason  you 
wouldn't  let  the  house  again?" 

"Er — why,  yes." 

"I  know  better.  You  didn't  have  any  row  with  the 
Davidsons.  You  couldn't  row  with  anybody,  anyhow ;  and 
besides  the  Colonel  himself  told  me  they  would  have  taken 
the  house  the  very  next  summer  but  you  wouldn't  rent  it 
to  'em.  And  you  mean  to  say  that  yarn  you've  just  spun 
was  the  reason?" 

"Why— yes." 

"Rubbish!  You've  told  me  a  dozen  reasons  afore,  but 
I'm  bound  to  say  this  is  the  most  foolish  yet.  All  right, 
keep  the  real  reason  to  yourself,  then.  But  I  tell  you  what 
I'm  goin'  to  do  to  get  even  with  you :  I'm  goin'  to  send 
these  folks  down  to  look  at  your  house  and  I  shan't  tell  you 
who  they  are  or  when  they're  comin'." 

The  knee  slipped  down  from  Mr.  Winslow's  grasp  and 
his  foot  struck  the  floor  with  a  crash.  He  made  a  frantic 
clutch  at  his  friend's  arm. 

"Oh,  now,  Sam,"  he  cried,  in  horror,  "don't  do  that! 
Don't  talk  so!  You  don't  mean  it!  Come  here!  .  .  . 
Sam!" 

But  the  captain  was  at  the  door.  "You  bet  I  mean  it!"  he 
declared.  "Keep  your  weather  eye  peeled,  Jed.  They'll  be 


"SHAVINGS"  67 


comin'  'most  any  time  now.  And  if  you  have  any  sense 
you'll  let  'em  the  house.  So  longl" 

He  drove  away  in  his  little  car.  Jed  Winslow,  left 
standing  in  the  shop  doorway,  staring  after  him,  groaned 
in  anxious  foreboding. 

He  groaned  a  good  many  times  during  the  next  few 
hours.  Each  time  the  bell  rang  announcing  the  arrival  of 
a  visitor  he  rose  to  answer  it  perfectly  sure  that  here  were 
the  would-be  tenants  whom  his  friend,  in  the  mistaken 
kindness  of  his  heart,  was  sending  to  him.  Not  that  he 
had  the  slightest  idea  of  renting  his  old  home,  but  he 
dreaded  the  ordeal  of  refusing.  In  fact  he  was  not  sure 
that  he  could  refuse,  not  sure  that  he  could  invent  a 
believable  excuse  for  doing  so.  Another  person  would  not 
have  sought  excuses,  would  have  declared  simply  that  the 
property  was  not  for  rent,  but  Jed  Winslow  was  not  that 
other  person;  he  was  himself,  and  ordinary  methods  of 
procedure  were  not  his. 

Two  or  three  groups  of  customers  came  in,  purchased 
and  departed.  Captain  Jerry  Burgess  dropped  in  to  bring 
the  Winslow  mail,  which  in  this  case  consisted  of  an  order, 
a  bill  and  a  circular  setting  forth  the  transcendent  healing 
qualities  of  African  Balm,  the  Foe  of  Rheumatism.  Mr. 
Bearse  happened  in  to  discuss  the  great  news  of  the  pro 
posed  aviation  camp  and  to  tell  with  gusto  and  detail  how 
Phineas  Babbitt  had  met  Captain  Hunniwell  "right  square 
in  front  of  the  bank"  and  had  not  spoken  to  him.  "No,  sir, 
never  said  a  word  to  him  no  more'n  if  he  wan't  there. 
What  do  you  think  of  that?  And  they  say  Leander  wrote 
his  dad  that  he  thought  he  was  goin'  to  like  soldierin'  fust- 
rate,  and  Mrs.  Sarah  Mary  Babbitt  she  told  Melissa 
Busteed  that  her  husband's  language  when  he  read  that  was 
somethinr  sinful.  She  said  she  never  was  more  thankful 
that  they  had  lightnin'  rods  on  the  roof,  'cause  such  talk  as 
that  was  enough  to  fetch  down  fire  from  heaven." 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  nearly  noon  when  Jed,  entering  the  front  shop  in 
answer  to  the  bell,  found  there  the  couple  the  sight  c,f 
which  caused  his  heart  to  sink.  Here  they  were,  the 
house  hunters — there  was  no  doubt  of  it  in  his  mind.  The 
man  was  short  and  broad  and  protuberant  and  pompous. 
The  woman  possessed  all  the  last  three  qualities,  besides  be 
ing  tall.  He  shone  with  prosperity  and  sunburn,  she  reeked 
of  riches  and  talcum.  They  were  just  the  sort  of  people  who 
would  insist  upon  hiring  a  house  that  was  not  in  the 
market;  its  not  being  in  the  market  would,  in  their  eyes, 
make  it  all  the  more  desirable. 

Jed  had  seen  them  before,  knew  they  were  staying  at 
the  hotel  and  that  their  names  were  Powless.  He  remem 
bered  now,  with  a  thrill  of  alarm,  that  Mr.  Bearse  had 
recently  spoken  of  them  as  liking  Orham  very  much  and 
considering  getting  a  place  of  their  own.  And  of  course 
Captain  Sam,  hearing  this,  had  told  them  of  the  Winslow 
place,  had  sent  them  to  him.  "Oh,  Lord!  Oh,  Lord!" 
thought  Jed,  although  what  lie  said  was :  "Good  mornin'." 

He  might  as  well  have  said  nothing.  Mrs.  Powless, 
looming  large  between  the  piles  of  mills  and  vanes,  like  a 
battleship  in  a  narrow  channel,  was  loftily  inspecting  the 
stock  through  her  lorgnette.  Her  husband,  his  walking 
stick  under  his  arm  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  was  not 
even  making  the  pretense  of  being  interested;  he  was 
staring  through  the  seaward  window  toward  the  yard  and 
the  old  house. 

"These   are   really   quite   extraordinary,"   the   lady   an- 


"SHAVINGS"  69 


nounced,  after  a  moment.  "George,  you  really  should  see 
these  extraordinary  things." 

George  was,  evidently,  not  interested.  He  continued  to 
look  out  of  the  window. 

"What  are  they?"  he  asked,  without  turning. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  All  sorts  of  queer  dolls  and  boats — 
and  creatures,  made  of  wood.  Like  those  outside,  you 
know — er — teetotums,  windmills.  Do  come  and  look  at 
them." 

Mr.  Powless  did  not  comply.  He  said  "Umph"  and  that 
was  all. 

"George,"  repeated  Mrs.  Powless,  "do  you  hear  me? 
Come  and  look  at  them." 

And  George  came.  One  might  have  inferred  that,  when 
his  wife  spoke  like  that,  he  usually  came.  He  treated  a 
wooden  porpoise  to  a  thoroughly  wooden  stare  and  repeated 
his  remark  of  "Umph !" 

"Aren't  they  extraordinary}"  exclaimed  his  wife.  "Does 
this  man  make  them  himself,  I  wonder?" 

She  seemed  to  be  addressing  her  husband,  so  Jed  did 
not  answer, 

"Do  you  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Powless. 

"Yes,"  replied  Jed. 

Mrs.  Powless  said  "Fancy!"  Mr.  Powless  strolled  back 
to  the  window. 

"This  view  is  all  right,  Mollie,"  he  observed.  "Better 
even  than  it  is  from  the  street.  Come  and  see." 

Mrs.  Powless  went  and  saw.  Jed  stood  still  and  stared 
miserably. 

"Rather  attractive,  on  the  whole,  don't  you  think,  dear^' 
inquired  the  gentleman.  "Must  be  very  decent  in  the  yard 
there." 

The  lady  did  not  reply,  but  she  opened  the  door  and  went 
out,  around  the  corner  of  the  shop  and  into  the  back  yard. 


70  "SHAVINGS" 


Her  husband  trotted  after  her.  The  owner  of  the  property, 
gazing  pathetically  through  the  window,  saw  them  wander 
ing  about  the  premises,  looking  off  at  the  view,  up  into  the 
trees,  and  finally  trying  the  door  of  the  old  house  and 
peeping  in  between  the  slats  of  the  closed  blinds.  Then 
they  came  strolling  back  to  the  shop.  Jed,  drawing  a  long 
breath,  prepared  to  face  the  ordeal. 

Mrs.  Powless  entered  the  shop.  Mr.  Powless  remained 
by  the  door.  He  spoke  first. 

"You  own  all  this  ?"  he  asked,  indicating  the  surrounding 
country  with  a  wave  of  his  cane.  Jed  nodded. 

"That  house,  too?"  waving  the  point  of  the  cane  toward 
the  Winslow  cottage. 

"Yes." 

"How  old  is  it?" 

Jed  stammered  that  he  guessed  likely  it  was  about  a 
hundred  years  old  or  such  matter. 

"Umph !     Furniture  old,  too  ?" 

"Yes,  I  cal'late  most  of  it  is." 

"Nobody  living  in  it?" 

"No-o." 

"Got  the  key  to  it?" 

Here  was  the  question  direct.  If  he  answered  in  the 
affirmative  the  next  utterance  of  the  Powless  man  would  be 
a  command  to  be  shown  the  interior  of  the  house.  Jed 
was  certain  of  it,  he  could  see  it  in  the  man's  eye.  What 
was  infinitely  more  important,  he  could  see  it  in  the  lady's 
eye.  He  hesitated. 

"Got  the  key  to  it?"  repeated  Mr.  Powless. 

Jed  swallowed. 

"No-o,"  he  faltered,  "I— I  guess  not." 

"You  guess  not.  Don't  you  know  whether  you've  got  it 
or  not  ?" 

"No.     I  mean  yes.     I  know  I  ain't." 


"SHAVINGS"  71 


"Where  is  it;  lost?" 

The  key  was  usually  lost,  that  is  to  say,  Jed  was  accus 
tomed  to  hunt  for  fifteen  minutes  before  finding  it,  so,  his 
conscience  backing  his  inclination,  he  replied  that  he 
cal'lated  it  must  be. 

"Umph!"  grunted  Powless.  "How  do  you  get  into  the 
house  without  a  key  ?" 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin,  swallowed  hard,  and  drawled  that 
he  didn't  very  often. 

"You  do  sometimes,  don't  you?" 

The  best  answer  that  the  harassed  windmill  maker  could 
summon  was  that  he  didn't  know.  The  red-faced  gentle 
man  stared  at  him  in  indignant  amazement 

"You  don't  know?"  he  repeated.  "Which  don't  you 
know,  whether  you  go  into  the  house  at  all,  or  how  you 
get  in  without  a  key?" 

"Yes, — er— er — that's  it." 

Mr.  Powless  breathed  deeply.  "Well,  I'll  be  damned!" 
he  declared,  with  conviction. 

His  wife  did  not  contradict  his  assertion,  but  she  made 
one  of  her  own. 

"George,"  she  commanded  majestically,  "can't  you  see 
the  man  has  been  drinking.  Probably  he  doesn't  own  the 
place  at  all.  Don't  waste  another  moment  on  him.  We 
will  come  back  later,  v/hen  the  real  owner  is  in.  Come  P* 

George  came  and  they  both  went.  Mr.  Winslow  wiped 
his  perspiring  forehead  on  a  piece  of  wrapping  paper  and 
sat  down  upon  a  box  to  recover.  Recovery,  however,  was 
by  no  means  rapid  or  complete.  They  had  gone,  but  they 
were  coming  back  again;  and  what  should  he  say  to  them 
then?  Very  likely  Captain  Sam,  who  had  sent  them  in  the 
first  place,  would  return  with  them.  And  Captain  Sam 
knew  that  the  key  was  not  really  lost.  Jed's  satisfaction  in 


72  "SHAVINGS" 


the  fact  that  he  had  escaped  tenantless  so  far  was  nullified 
by  the  fear  that  his  freedom  was  but  temporary. 

He  cooked  his  dinner,  but  ate  little.  After  washing  the 
dishes  he  crossed  the  road  to  the  telephone  and  telegraph 
office  and  called  up  the  Orham  Bank.  He  meant  to  get 
Captain  Hunniwell  on  the  wire,  tell  him  that  the  house 
hunters  had  paid  him  a  visit,  that  he  did  not  like  them,  and 
beg  the  captain  to  call  them  off  the  scent.  But  Captain 
Sam  had  motored  to  Ostable  to  attend  a  preliminary  session 
of  the  Exemption  Board.  Jed  sauntered  gloomily  back  to 
the  shop.  When  he  opened  the  door  and  entered  he  was 
greeted  by  a  familiar  voice,  which  said : 

"Here  he  is,  Mamma.     Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Winslow." 

Jed  started,  turned,,  and  found  Miss  Barbara  Armstrong 
beaming  up  at  him.  The  yoting  lady's  attire  and  general 
appearance  were  in  marked  contrast  to  those  of  the  previ 
ous  evening.  -Petunia  also  was  in  calling  costume;  save 
for  the  trifling  lack  of  one  eye  and  a  chip  from  the  end  of 
her  nose,  she  would  have  been  an  ornament  to  doll  society 
anywhere. 

"This  is  my  mamma,"  announced  Barbara.  "She's  come 
to  see  you." 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Winslow?"  said  Mrs.  Armstrong. 

Jed  looked  up  to  find  her  standing  beside  him,  her  hand 
extended.  Beside  a  general  impression  that  she  was  young 
and  that  her  gown  and  hat  and  shoes  were  white,  he  was 
at  that  moment  too  greatly  embarrassed  to  notice  much  con 
cerning  her  appearance.  Probably  he  did  not  notice  even 
this  until  later.  However,  he  took  her  hand,  moved  it  up 
and  down,  dropped  it  again  and  said:  "I — I'm  pleased  to 
meet  you,  ma'am." 

She  smiled.  "And  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you,"  she 
said.  "It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  bring  my  little  girl 


"SHAVINGS"  73 


home  last  night  and  she  and  I  have  eorae  to  thank  you  for 
d®ing  it" 

Jed  was  more  embarrassed  than  ever. 

"Sho.  sho!"  he  protested;  "  'twasn't  anything." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  was ;  it  was  a  great  deal.  I  was  getting  very 
worried,  almost  frightened.  She  had  been  gone  ever  since 
luncheon — dinner,  I  mean — and  I  had  no  idea  where.  She's 
a  pretty  good  little  girl,  generally  speaking,"  drawing  the 
child  close  and  smiling  down  upon  her,  "but  sometimes  she 
is  heedless  and  forgets.  Yesterday  she  forgot,  didn't  you, 
dear?" 

Barbara  shook  her  head. 

"I  didn't  forget,"  she  said.  "I  mean  I  only  forgot  a 
little.  Petunia  forgot  almost  everything.  I  forgot  and 
went  as  far  as  the  bridge,  but  she  forgot  all  the  way  to  the 
clam  field." 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin. 

"The  which  field?"  he  drawled. 

"The  clam  field.  The  place  where  Mrs.  Smalley's  fish 
man  unplants  the  clams  she  makes  the  chowder  of.  He 
does  it  with  a  sort  of  hoe  thing  and  puts  them  in  a  pail. 
He  was  doing  it  yesterday;  I  saw  him." 

Jed's  eyes  twinkled  at  the  word  "unplants,"  but  another 
thought  occurred  to  him. 

"You  wasn't  out  on  those  clam  flats  alone,  was  you?" 
he  asked,  addressing  Barbara. 

She  nodded.  "Petunia  and  I  went  all  alone,"  she  said. 
"It  was  kind  of  wet  so  we  took  off  our  shoes  and  stockings 
and  paddled.  I — I  don't  know's  I  remembered  to  tell  you 
that  part,  Mamma,"  she  added,  hastily.  "I — I  guess  it 
must  have  slipped  my  mind." 

But  Mrs.  Armstrong  was  watching  Jed's  face, 

"Was  there  any  danger?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

Jed  hesitated  before  answering.     "Why,"   he   drawled, 


74  "SHAVINGS" 


"I — I  don't  know  as  there  was,  but — well,  the  tide  comes 
in  kind  of  slow  off  on  the  flats,  but  it's  liable  to  fill  up  the 
channels  between  them  and  the  beach  some  faster.  Course 
if  you  know  the  wadin'  places  it's  all  right,  but  if  you  don't 
it's — well,  it's  sort  of  uncomfortable,  that's  all." 

The  lady's  cheeks  paled  a  bit,  but  she  did  not  exclaim, 
nor  as  Jed  would  have  said  "make  a  fuss."  She  said, 
simply,  "Thank  /ou,  I  will  remember,"  and  that  was  the 
only  reference  she  made  to  the  subject  of  the  "clam  field." 

Miss  Barbara,  to  whom  the  events  of  dead  yesterdays 
were  of  no  particular  concern  compared  to  those  of  the 
vital  and  living  to-day,  was  rummaging  among  the  stock. 

"Mamma,"  she  cried,  excitedly,  "here  is  a  whale  fish 
like  the  one  I  was  going  to  buy  for  Captain  Hedge.  Come 
and  see  it." 

Mrs.  Armstrong  came  and  was  much  interested.  She 
asked  Jed  questions  concerning  the  "whale  fish"  and  others 
of  his  creations.  At  first  his  replies  were  brief  and  mono 
syllabic,  but  gradually  they  became  more  lengthy,  until, 
without  being  aware  of  it,  he  was  carrying  on  his  share  of 
a  real  conversation.  Of  course,  he  nesitated  and  paused 
and  drawled,  but  he  always  did  that,  even  when  talking 
with  Captain  Sam  Hunniwell. 

He  took  down  and  exhibited  his  wares  one  by  one. 
Barbara  asked  numberless  questions  concerning  each  and 
chattered  like  a  red  squirrel.  Her  mother  showed  such  a 
genuine  interest  in  his  work  and  was  so  pleasant  and  quiet 
and  friendly,  was,  in  short,  such  a  marked  contrast  to  Mrs. 
George  Powless,  that  he  found  himself  actually  beginning 
to  enjoy  the  visit.  Usually  he  was  glad  when  summer 
folks  finished  their  looking  and  buying  and  went  away ;  but 
now,  when  Mrs.  Armstrong  glanced  at  the  clock  on  the 
shelf,  he  was  secretly  glad  that  that  clock  had  not  gone 


"SHAVINGS"  75 


for  over  four  months  and  had  providentially  stopped  going 
at  a  quarter  after  three. 

He  took  them  into  the  inner  shop,  his  workroom,  and 
showed  them  the  band  saw  and  the  lathe  and  the  rest  of  his 
manufacturing  outfit.  Barbara  asked  if  he  lived  there  all 
alone  and  he  said  he  did. 

"I  live  out  there,"  he  explained,  pointing  toward  the 
shop  extension.  "Got  a  sittin'-room  and  a  kitchen  out 
there,  and  a  little  upstairs,  where  I  sleep." 

Mrs.  Armstrong  seemed  surprised.  "Why!"  she  ex 
claimed,  "I  thought  you  lived  in  that  dear  little  old  house 
next  door  here.  I  was  told  that  you  owned  it." 

Jed  nodded.  "Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "I  do  own  it,  but 
I  don't  live  in  it.  I  used  to  live  there,  but  I  ain't  for  quite 
a  spell  now." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  bear  to  give  it  up.  It  looks 
so  quaint  and  homey,  and  if  the  inside  is  as  delightful  as 
the  outside  it  must  be  quite  wonderful.  And  the  view  is 
the  best  in  town,  isn't  it  ?" 

Jed  was  pleased.  "Why,  yes,  ma'am,  'tis  pretty  good," 
he  admitted.  "Anyhow,  most  folks  seem  to  cal'late  'tis. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  come  out  and  look  at  it  ?" 

Barbara  clapped  her  hands.  "Oh,  yes,  Mamma,  do!" 
she  cried. 

Her  mother  hesitated.  "I  don't  know  that  we  ought  to 
trouble  Mr.  Winslow,"  she  said.  "He  is  busy,  you  know." 

Jed  protested.  "It  won't  be  a  mite  of  trouble,"  he  de 
clared.  "Besides,  it  ain't  healthy  to  work  too  long  at  a 
stretch.  That  is,"  he  drawled,  "folks  say  'tain't,  so  I  never 
take  the  risk." 

Mrs.  Armstrong  smiled  and  followed  him  out  into  the 
yard,  where  Miss  Barbara  had  already  preceded  them.  The 
view  over  the  edge  of  the  bluff  was  glorious  and  the  grass 
in  the  yard  was  green,  the  flowers  bright  and  pretty  and 


76  "SHAVINGS" 


the  shadows  of  the  tall  lilac  bushes  by  the  back  door  of 
the  little  white  house  cool  and  inviting. 

Barbara  danced  along  the  bluff  edge,  looking  down  at 
the  dories  and  nets  on  the  beach  below.  Her  mother 
sighed  softly. 

"It  is  lovely!"  she  said.  Then,  turning  to  look  at  the 
little  house,  she  added,  "And  it  was  your  old  home,  I 
suppose." 

Jed  nodded.  "Yes,  ma'am,"  he  replied.  "I  was  born  in 
that  house  and  lived  there  all  my  life  up  to  five  years  ago," 

"And  then  you  gave  it  up.  Why?  .  .  .  Please  forgive 
me.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  curious." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  ma'am.  Nothin'  secret  about  it. 
My  mother  died  and  I  didn't  seem  to  care  about  livin'  there 
alone,  that's  all." 

"I  see.     I  understand." 

She  looked  as  if  she  did  understand,  and  Jed,  the  seldom 
understood,  experienced  an  unusual  pleasure.  The  sensa 
tion  produced  an  unusual  result. 

"It's  a  kind  of  cute  and  old-fashioned  house  inside,"  he 
observed.  "Maybe  you'd  like  to  go  in  and  look  around; 
would  you?" 

She  looked  very  much  pleased.  "Oh,  I  should,  indeed !" 
she  exclaimed.  "May  I?" 

Now,  the  moment  after  he  issued  the  invitation  he  was 
sorry.  It  had  been  quite  unpremeditated  and  had  been 
given  he  could  not  have  told  why.  His  visitor  had  seemed 
so  genuinely  interested,  and,  above  all,  had  treated  him 
like  a  rational  human  being  instead  of  a  freak.  Under  this 
unaccustomed  treatment  Jed  Winslow  had  been  caught  off 
his  guard — hypnotized,  so  to  speak.  And  now,  when  it  was 
too  late,  he  realized  the  possibl-e  danger.  Only  a  few  hours 
ago  he  had  told  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Powless  that  the 
\ey  to  that  house  had  been  lost. 


"SHAVINGS"  77 


He  paused  and  hesitated.  Mrs.  Armstrong  noticed  his 
hesitation. 

"Please  don't  think  any  more  about  it,"  she  said.  "It  is 
delightful  here  in  the  yard.  Babbie  and  I  will  stay  here 
a  few  minutes,  if  we  may,  and  you  must  go  back  to  your 
work,  Mr.  Winslow." 

But  Jed,  having  put  his  foot  in  it,  was  ashamed  to  with 
draw.  He  hastened  to  disclaim  any  intention  of  with 
drawal. 

"No,  no,"  he  protested.  "I  don't  need  to  go  to  work, 
not  yet  anyhow.  I  should  be  real  pleased  to  shovr  you  the 
house,  ma'am.  You  wait  now  and  I'll  fetch  the  key." 

Some  five  minutes  later  he  reappeared  with  triumph  in 
his  eye  and  the  "lost"  key  in  his  hand. 

"Sorry  to  keep  you  waitin',  ma'am,"  he  explained.  "The 
key  had — er — stole  its  nest,  as  you  might  say.  Got  it  now, 
though." 

His  visitors  looked  at  the  key,  which  was  attached  by 
a  cord  to  a  slab  of  wood  about  the  size  of  half  a  shingle. 
Upon  one  side  of  the  slab  were  lettered  in  black  paint  the 
words  HERE  IT  IS.  Barbara's  curiosity  was  aroused. 

"What  have  you  got  those  letters  on  there  for,  Mr.  Win- 
slow?"  she  asked.  "What  does  it  say?" 

Jed  solemnly  read  the  inscription.  "I  printed  that  on 
there,"  he  explained,  "so  I'd  be  able  to  find  the  key  when 
I  wanted  it." 

Mrs.  Armstrong  smiled.  "I  should  think  it  might  help," 
she  observed,  evidently  much  amused. 

Mr.  Winslow  nodded.  "You  would  think  so,"  he  said, 
"wouldn't  you?  Maybe  'twould,  too,  only  'twas  such  a 
plaguey  nuisance,  towin'  that  half  a  cord  of  wood  around, 
that  I  left  it  to  home  last  time.  Untied  the  string,  you 
know,  and  just  took  the  key.  The  wood  and  the  string 


78  "SHAVINGS" 


was  hangin'  up  in  the  right  place,  but  the  key  wan't  among 
those  present,  as  they  say  in  the  newspapers." 

"Where  was  it?"  demanded  Barbara. 

"Hush,  dear,"  cautioned  her  mother.  "You  mustn't  ask 
so  many  questions." 

"That's  all  right,  ma'am;  I  don't  mind  a  mite.  Where 
was  it?  We-11,  'twas  in  my  pants  pocket  here,  just 
where  I  put  it  last  time  I  used  it.  Naturally  enough  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  of  lookin'  there  and  I  don't  know's 
I'd  have  found  it  yet,  but  I  happened  to  shove  my  hands 
in  my  pockets  to  help  me  think,  and  there  'twas." 

This  explanation  should  have  been  satisfying,  doubtless, 
but  Barbara  did  not  seem  to  find  it  wholly  so. 

"Please  may  I  ask  one  more  question,  Mamma?"  she 
pleaded.  "Just  only  one?" 

She  asked  it  before  her  mother  could  reply. 

"How  does  putting  your  hands  in  your  pockets  help  you 
think,  Mr.  Winslow?"  she  asked.  "I  don't  see  how  it 
would  help  a  bit?" 

Jed's  eye  twinkled,  but  his  reply  was  solemrty  given. 

"Why,  you  see,"  he  drawled,  "I'm  built  a  good  deal  like 
the  old  steam  launch  Tobias  Wixon  used  to  own.  Every 
time  Tobias  blew  the  whistle  it  used  up  all  the  steam  and 
the  engine  stopped.  I've  got  a  head  about  like  that  engine ; 
when  I  want  to  use  it  I  have  to  give  all  the  rest  of  me  a 
layoff.  .  .  .  Here  we  are,  ma'am.  Walk  right  in,  won't 
you." 

He  showed  them  through  room  after  room  of  the  little 
house,  opening  the  closed  shutters  so  that  the  afternoon 
sunlight  might  stream  in  and  brighten  their  progress.  The 
rooms  were  small,  but  they  were  attractive  and  cosy.  The 
furniture  was  almost  all  old  mahogany  and  in  remarkably 
good  condition.  The  rugs  were  home-made;  even  the 
coverlets  of  the  beds  were  of  the  old-fashioned  blue  and 


'SHAVINGS"  79 


white,  woven  on  the  hand  looms  of  our  great-grandmothers. 
Mrs.  Armstrong  was  enthusiastic. 

"It  is  like  a  miniature  museum  of  antiques/'  she  de 
clared.  "And  such  wonderful  antiques,  too.  You  must 
have  been  besieged  by  people  who  wanted  to  buy  them." 

Jed  nodded.  "Ye-es,"  he  admitted,  "I  cal'late  there's 
been  no  less'n  a  million  antiquers  here  in  the  last  four  or 
five  year.  I  don't  mean  here  in  the  house — I  never  let 
'em  in  the  house — but  'round  the  premises.  Got  so  they 
kind  of  swarmed  first  of  every  summer,  like  June  bugs. 
I  got  rid  of  'em,  though,  for  a  spell." 

"Did  you;  how?" 

He  rubbed  his  chin.  "Put  up  a  sign  by  the  Iront  door 
that  said :  'Beware  of  Leprosy.'  That  kept  'em  away  while 
it  lasted." 

Mrs.  Armstrong  laughed  merrily.  "I  should  think  so," 
she  said.  "But  why  leprosy,  pray?" 

"Oh,  I  was  goin'  to  make  it  smallpox,  but  I  asked  Doctor 
Parker  if  there  was  anything  worse  than  smallpox  and  he 
said  he  cal'lated  leprosy  was  about  as  bad  as  any  disease 
goin'.  It  worked  fine  while  it  lasted,  but  the  Board  of 
Health  made  me  take  it  down ;  said  there  wan't  any  leprosy 
on  the  premises.  I  told  'em  no,  but  'twas  a  good  idea  to 
beware  of  it  anyhow,  and  I'd  put  up  the  sign  just  on 
general  principles.  No  use;  they  hadn't  much  use  for 
principles,  general  or  otherwise,  seemed  so." 

The  lady  commented  on  the  neatness  and  order  in  the 
little  rooms.  They  were  in  marked  contrast  to  the  work 
shop.  "I  suppose  you  have  a  woman  come  here  to  clean 
and  sweep,"  she  said. 

Jed  shook  his  head. 

"No-o,"  he  answered.  "I  generally  cal'late  to  come  in 
every  little  while  and  clean  up.  Mother  was  always  a 
great  one  for  keepin'  things  slicked  up,"  he  added,  apolo- 


So  "SHAVINGS" 


getically,  "and  I — I  kind  of  like  to  think  'twould  please 
her.  Foolish,  I  presume  likely,  but — well,  foolish  things 
seem  to  come  natural  to  me.  Got  a  kind  of  a  gift  for 
'em,  as  you  might  say.  I  ..." 

He  lapsed  into  silence,  his  sentence  only  begun.  Mrs. 
Armstrong,  looking  up,  found  him  gazing  at  her  with  the 
absent,  far-off  look  that  his  closest  associates  knew  so 
well.  She  had  not  met  it  before  and  found  it  rather 
embarrassing,  especially  as  it  kept  on  and  on. 

"Well  ?"  she  asked,  after  a  time.  He  started  and  awoke 
to  realities. 

"I  was  just  thinkin',"  he  explained,  "that  you  was  the 
only  woman  that  has  been  in  this  house  since  the  summer 
I  let  it  to  the  Davidson  folks.  And  Mrs.  Davidson  wan't 
a  mite  like  you." 

That  was  true  enough.  Mrs.  Davidson  had  been  a  plump 
elderly  matron  with  gray  hair,  a  rather  rasping  voice  and 
a  somewhat  aggressive  manner.  Mrs.  Armstrong  was 
young  and  slim,  her  hair  and  eyes  were  dark,  her  manner 
refined  and  her  voice  low  and  gentle.  And,  if  Jed  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  noticing  such  things,  he  might  have 
noticed  that  she  was  pleasant  to  look  at.  Perhaps  he  was 
conscious  of  this  fact,  but,  if  so,  it  was  only  in  a  vague, 
general  way. 

His  gaze  wandered  to  Barbara,  who,  with  Petunia,  was 
curled  up  in  a  big  old-fashioned  rocker. 

"And  a  child,  too,"  he  mused.  "I  don't  know  when 
there's  been  a  child  in  here.  Not  since  I  was  one,  I  guess 
likely,  and  that's  too  long  ago  for  anybody  to  remember 
single-handed." 

But  Mrs.  Armstrong  was  interested  in  his  previous  re 
mark. 

"You  have  let  others  occupy  this  house  then?"  she 
asked. 


"SHAVINGS"  81 


"Yes,  ma'am,  one  summer  I  did.  Let  it  furnished  to 
some  folks  name  of  Davidson,  from  Chicago." 

"And  you  haven't  rented  it  since?" 

"No,  ma'am,  not  but  that  once." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she  said:  "I  am 
surprised  that  it  hasn't  been  occupied  always.  Do  you  ask 
such  a  very  high  rent,  Mr.  Winslow  ?" 

Je(l  looked  doubtful.  "Why,  no,  ma'am,"  he  answered. 
"I  didn't  cal'late  'twas  so  very  high,  considerin'  that  'twas 
just  for  summer  and  furnished  and  all.  The  Davidsons 
paid  forty  dollars  a  month,  but " 

"Forty  dollars!  A  month?  And  furnished  like  that? 
You  mean  a  week,  don't  you  ?" 

Mr.  Winslow  looked  at  her.  The  slow  smile  wandered 
across  his  face.  He  evidently  suspected  a  joke. 

"Why,  no,  ma'am,"  he  drawled.  "You  see,  they  was 
rentin'  the  place,  not  buyin'  it." 

"But  forty  dollars  a  month  is  very  cheap." 

"Is  it?  Sho!  Now  you  speak  of  it  I  remember  that 
Captain  Sam  seemed  to  cal'late  'twas.  He  said  I  ought 
to  have  asked  a  hundred,  or  some  such  foolishness.  I  told 
him  he  must  have  the  notion  that  I  was  left  out  of  the 
sweet  ile  when  they  pickled  the  other  thirty-nine  thieves. 
Perhaps  you've  read  the  story,  ma'am,"  he  suggested. 

His  visitor  laughed.  "I  have  read  it,"  she  said.  Then 
she  added,  plainly  more  to  herself  than  to  him:  "But  even 
forty  is  far  too  much,  of  course." 

Jed  was  surprised  and  a  little  hurt. 

"Yes — er — yes,  ma'am,"  he  faltered.  "Well,  I — I  was 
kind  of  'fraid  'twas,  but  Colonel  Davidson  seemed  to  think 
'twas  about  fair,  so " 

"Oh,  you  misunderstand  me.  I  didn't  mean  that  forty 
dollars  was  too  high  a  rent.  It  isn't,  it  is  a  very  low  one. 
I  meant  that  it  was  more  than  /  ought  to  think  of  paying. 


82  "SHAVINGS" 


You  see,  Mr.  Winslow,  I  have  been  thinking  that  we  might 
live  here  in  Orham,  Barbara  and  I.  I  like  the  town ;  and 
the  people,  most  of  those  I  have  met,  have  been  very 
pleasant  and  kind.  And  it  is  necessary — that  is,  it  seems 
to  me  preferable — that  we  live,  for  some  years  at  least,  away 
from  the  city.  This  little  house  of  yours  is  perfect.  I  fell 
in  love  with  the  outside  of  it  at  first  sight.  Now  I  find 
the  inside  even  more  delightful.  I" — she  hesitated,  and 
then  added — "I  don't  suppose  you  would  care  to  let  it 
unfurnished  at — at  a  lower  rate?" 

Jed  was  very  much  "embarrassed.  The  idea  that  his 
caller  would  make  such  a  proposition  as  this  had  not 
occurred  to  him  for  a  moment.  If  it  had  the  lost  key 
would  almost  certainly  have  remained  lost.  He  liked  Mrs. 
Armstrong  even  on  such  short  acquaintance,  and  he  had 
taken  a  real  fancy  to  Barbara;  but  his  prejudice  against 
tenants  remained.  He  rubbed  his  chin. 

"Why — why,  now,  ma'am,"  he  stammered,  "you — you 
wouldn't  like  livin'  in  Orham  all  the  year  'round,  would 
you?" 

"I  hope  I  should.  I  know  I  should  like  it  better  than 
living — elsewhere,"  with,  so  it  seemed  to  him,  a  little  shud 
der.  "And  I  cannot  afford  to  live  otherwise  than  very 
simply  anywhere.  I  have  been  boarding  in  Orham  for 
almost  three  months  now  and  I  feel  that  I  have  given  it  a 
trial." 

"Yes — yes,  ma'am,  but  summer's  considerable  more  lively 
than  winter  here  on  the  Cape." 

"I  have  no  desire  for  society.  I  expect  to  be  quiet  and 
I  wish  to  be.  Mr.  Winslow,  would  you  consider  letting 
me  occupy  this  house — unfurnished,  of  course?  I  should 
dearly  love  to  take  it  just  as  it  is — this  furniture  is  far 
more  fitting  for  it  than  mine — but  I  cannot  afford  forty 
dollars  a  month.  Provided  you  were  willing  to  let  me  hire 


"SHAVINGS"  83 


the  house  of  you  at  all,  not  for  the  summer  alone  but  for 
all  the  year,  what  rent  do  you  think  you  should  charge  ?" 

Jed's  embarrassment  increased.  "Well,  now,  ma'am,"  he 
faltered,  "I — I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  sayin'  it,  but — 
but  I  don't  know's  I  want  to  let  this  house  at  all.  I — I've 
had  consider'ble  many  chances  to  rent  it,  but — but 

He  could  not  seem  to  find  a  satisfactory  ending  to  the 
sentence  and  so  left  it  unfinished.  Mrs.  Armstrong  was 
evidently  much  disappointed,  but  she  did  not  give  up 
completely. 

"I  see,"  she  said.  "Well,  in  a  way  I  think  I  under 
stand.  You  prefer  the  privacy.  I  think  I  could  promise 
you  that  Barbara  and  I  would  disturb  you  very  little.  As 
to  the  rent,  that  would  be  paid  promptly." 

"Sartin,  ma'am,  sartin;  I  know  'twould,  but " 

"Won't  you  think  it  over  ?  We  might  even  live  here  for 
a  month,  with  your  furniture  undisturbed  and  at  the  regular 
rental.  You  could  call  it  a  trial  month,  if  you  liked.  You 
could  see  how  you  liked  us,  you  know.  At  the  end  of  that 
time,"  with  a  smile,  "you  might  tell  us  we  wouldn't  do  at 
all,  or,  perhaps,  then  you  might  consider  making  a  more 
permanent  arrangement.  Barbara  would  like  it  here, 
wouldn't  you,  dear?" 

Barbara,  who  had  been  listening,  nodded  excitedly  from 
the  big  rocker.  "Ever  and  ever  so  much,"  she  dedared; 
"and  Petunia  would  just  adore  it." 

Poor  Jed  was  greatly  perturbed.  "Don't  talk  so,  Mrs. 
Armstrong,"  he  blurted.  "Please  don't.  I — I  don't  want 
you  to.  You — you  make  me  feel  bad." 

"Do  I  ?  I'm  so  sorry.  I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything  to 
hurt  your  feelings.  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"No,  you  don't.  I — I  mean  you  hadn't  ought  to.  You 
don't  hurt  my  f eelin's ;  I  mean  you  make  me  feel  bad — 
wicked — cussed  mean — all  that  and  some  more.  I  know  I 


84  "SHAVINGS" 


ought  to  let  you  have  this  house.  Any  common,  decent 
man  with  common  decent  feelin's  and  sense  would  let  you 
have  it.  But,  you  see,  I  ain't  that  kind.  I — I'm  selfish 
and — and  wicked  and "  He  waved  a  big  hand  in  des 
peration. 

She  laughed.  "Nonsense!"  she  exclaimed.  "Besides,  it 
isn't  so  desperate  as  all  that.  You  certainly  are  not  obliged 
to  rent  the  house  unless  you  want  to." 

"But  I  do  want  to ;  that  is,  I  don't,  but  I  know  I'd  ought 
to  want  to.  And  if  I  was  goin'  to  let  anybody  have  it  I'd 
rather  'twould  be  you — honest,  I  would.  And  it's  the 
right  thing  for  me  to  do,  I  know  that.  That's  what  bothers 
me;  the  trouble's  with  me.  I  don't  want  to  do  the  right 
thing."  He  broke  off,  seemed  to  reflect  and  then  asked 
suddenly : 

"Ma'am,  do  you  want  to  go  to  heaven  when  you  die?" 

The  lady  was  naturally  somewhat  surprised  at  the 

question.  "Why,  yes,"  she  replied,  "I Why,  of  course 

I  do." 

"There,  that's  it!  Any  decent,  sensible  person  would. 
But  I  don't." 

Barbara,  startled  into  forgetting  that  children  should  be 
seen  and  not  heard,  uttered  a  shocked  "Oh!" 

Jed  waved  his  hand.  "You  see,"  he  said,  "even  that 
child's  morals  are  upset  by  me.  I  know  I  ought  to  wanf  to 
go  to  heaven.  But  when  I  see  the  crowd  that  know  they're 
goin"  there,  are  sartin  of  it,  the  ones  from  this  town,  a  good 
many  of  'em  anyhow ;  when  I  hear  how  they  talk  in  prayer- 

meetin'  and  then  see  how  they  act  outside  of  it,  I 

Well,"  with  a  deep  sigh,  "I  want  to  go  where  they  ain't, 
that's  all."  He  paused,  and  then  drawled  solemnly,  but 
with  a  suspicion  of  the  twinkle  in  his  eye :  "The  general 
opinion  seems  to  be  that  that's  where  I'll  go,  so's  I  don't 
know's  I  need  to  worry." 


"SHAVINGS"  85 


Mrs.  Armstrong  made  no  comment  on  this  confession. 
He  did  not  seem  to  expect  any. 

"Ma'am,"  he  continued,  "you  see  what  I  mean.  The 
trouble's  with  me,  I  ain't  made  right.  I  ought  to  let  that 
house;  Sam  Hunniwell  told  me  so  this  mornin'.  But  I — I 
don't  want  to.  Nothin'  personal  to  you,  you  understand; 
but  ...  Eh?  Who's  that?" 

A  step  sounded  on  the  walk  outside  and  voices  were 
heard.  Jed  turned  to  the  door. 

"Customers,  I  cal'late,"  he  said.  "Make  yourselves  right 
to  home,  ma'am,  you  and  the  little  girl.  I'll  be  right  back." 

He  went  out  through  the  dining-room  into  the  little  hall. 
Barbara,  in  the  big  rocker,  looked  up  over  Petunia's  head 
at  her  mother. 

"Isn't  he  a  funny  man,  Mamma?"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Armstrong  nodded.  "Yes,  he  certainly  is,"  she 
admitted. 

"Yes,"  the  child  nodded  reflectively.  "But  I  don't  believe 
he's  wicked  at  all.  I  believe  he's  real  nice,  don't  you?" 

"I'm  sure  he  is,  dear." 

"Yes.  Petunia  and  I  like  him.  I  think  he's  what  you 
said  our  Bridget  was,  a  rough  damson." 

"Not  damson;  diamond,  dear." 

"Oh,  yes.  It  was  damson  preserve  Mrs.  Smalley  had  for 
supper  last  night.  I  forgot.  Petunia  told  me  to  say  dam 
son;  she  makes  so  many  mistakes." 

They  heard  the  "rough  diamond"  returning.  He  seemed 
to  be  in  a  hurry.  When  he  reentered  the  little  sitting-room 
he  looked  very  much  frightened. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  demanded  Mrs.  Armstrong. 

Jed  gulped. 

"They've  come  back,"  he  whispered.  "Godfreys,  I  for 
got  'em,  and  they've  come  back.  What'll  I  do  now  ?" 

"But  who — who  has  come  back  ?" 


86  "SHAVINGS" 


Mr.  Winslow  waved  both  hands. 

"The  Old  Scratch  and  his  wife,"  he  declared.  "I  hope 
they  didn't  see  me,  but — Land  of  love,  they're  comin'  in !" 

A  majestic  tread  sounded  in  the  hall,  in  the  dining-room. 
Mrs.  George  Powless  appeared,  severe,  overwhelming,  with 
Mr.  George  Powless  in  her  wake.  The  former  saw  Mr. 
Winslow  and  fixed  him  with  her  glittering  eye,  as  the 
Ancient  Mariner  fixed  the  wedding  guest. 

"Ah!"  she  observed,  with  majestic  irony,  "the  lost  key 
is  found,  it  would  seem." 

Jed  looked  guilty. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  faltered.     "Er— yes,  ma'am." 

"So?  And  now,  I  presume,  as  it  is  apparent  that  you 
do  show  the  interior  of  this  house  to  other  interested  per 
sons,"  with  a  glance  like  a  sharpened  icicle  in  the  direction 
of  the  Armstrongs,  "perhaps  you  will  show  it  to  my 
husband  and  me." 

Jed  swallowed  hard. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  he  faltered,  "I— I'd  like  to,  but— but 
the  fact  is,  I " 

"Well,  what?" 

"It  ain't  my  house." 

"Isn't  your  house?  George,"  turning  to  Mr.  Powless, 
"didn't  I  hear  this  man  distinctly  tell  you  that  this  house 
was  his?" 

George  nodded.  "Certainly,  my  dear,"  he  declared. 
Then  turning  to  Mr.  Winslow,  he  demanded:  "What  do 
you  mean  by  saying  it  is  yours  one  moment  and  not  yours 
the  next;  eh?" 

Jed  looked  around.  For  one  instant  his  gaze  rested 
upon  the  face  of  Mrs.  Armstrong.  Then  he  drew  him 
self  up. 

"Because,"  he  declared,  "I've  rented  it  furnished  to  this 
lady  here.  And,  that  bein'  the  case,  it  ain't  mine  just  now 


"SHAVINGS"  87 


and  I  ain't  got  any  right  to  be  in  it.  And,"  his  voice  rising 
in  desperation,  "neither  has  anybody  else." 

Mrs.  George  Powless  went  a  few  moments  later;  before 
she  went  she  expressed  her  opinion  of  Mr.  Winslow's 
behavior.  Mr.  George  Powless  followed  her,  expressing 
his  opinion  as  he  went.  The  object  of  their  adjuration  sat 
down  upon  a  rush-bottomed  chair  and  rubbed  his  chin. 

"Lord !"  he  exclaimed,  with  fervor.  Mrs.  Armstrong 
looked  at  him  in  amazement. 

"Why,  Mr.  Winslow!"  she  exclaimed,  and  burst  out 
laughing. 

Jed  groaned.  "I  know  how  Jonah  felt  after  the  whale 
unloaded  him,"  he  drawled.  "That  woman  all  but  had 
me  swallered.  If  you  hadn't  been  here  she  would." 

"Jed!"  shouted  a  voice  outside.     "Jed,  where  are  you?" 

Mr.  Winslow  raised  his  head.  "Eh  ?"  he  queried.  "That's 
Sam  hollerin',  ain't  it?" 

It  was  Captain  Hunniwell  and  a  moment  later  he  entered 
the  little  sitting-room.  When  he  saw  who  his  friend's  com 
panions  were  he  seemed  greatly  surprised. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Armstrong!"  he  exclaimed.  "Are  you  here? 
Now  that's  a  funny  thing.  The  last  time  I  saw  Jed  I 
warned  him  I  was  goin'  to  send  you  here  to  look  at  this 
house.  And  you  came  without  bein'  sent,  after  all;  eh?" 

Jed  stared  at  him.  Before  the  lady  could  reply  he  spoke. 
"What?"  he  cried.  "Was  she — Sam  Hunniwell,  was  it  her 
you  was  goin'  to  send  to  see  about  hirin'  this  house?" 

"Sure  it  was.     Why  not?" 

Jed  pointed  toward  the  door.  "Then — then  who,"  he 
demanded,  "sent  those  Powlesses  here  ?" 

"No  one  that  I  know  of.  And  anyhow  they  don't  want 
to  rent  any  houses.  They've  bought  land  over  at  Harniss- 
port  and  they're  goin'  to  build  a  house  of  their  own  there." 

"They   are?     They   are?     Then — then   -what   did   that 


88  "SHAVINGS" 


woman  say  I'd  got  to  show  her  the  inside  of  this  house  for?" 

"I  don't  know.  Did  she?  Oh,  I  tell  you  wnat  she  was 
after,  probably.  Some  one  had  told  her  about  your  old 
furniture  and  things,  Jed.  She's  the  greatest  antique  hunter 
on  earth,  so  they  tell  me.  That's  what  she  was  after — 
antiques." 

Jed,  having  paused  until  this  had  sunk  in,  groaned. 

"Lord !"  he  said,  again.     "And  I  went  and " 

Another  groan  finished  the  sentence. 

Mrs.  Armstrong  came  forward. 

"Please  don't  worry  about  it,  Mr.  Winslow,"  she  said. 
"I  know  you  didn't  mean  it.  Of  course,  knowing  your 
feelings,  I  shouldn't  think  of  taking  the  house." 

But  Jed  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"I  want  you  to,"  he  declared.  "Yes,  I  mean  it.  I  want 
you  to  come  and  live  in  this  house  for  a  month,  anyhow. 
If  you  don't,  that  Powless  woman  will  come  back  and  buy 
every  stick  and  rag  on  the  place.  I  don't  want  to  sell  'em, 
but  I  couldn't  say  no  to  her  any  more  than  I  could  to  the 
Old  Harry.  I  called  her  the  Old  Scratch's  wife,  didn't 
I,"  he  added.  "Well,  I  won't  take  it  back." 

Captain  Sam  laughed  uproariously. 

"You  ain't  very  complimentary  to  Mr.  Powless,"  he 
observed. 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin. 

"I  would  be  if  I  was  referrin'  to  him,"  he  drawled,  "but 
I  judge  he's  her  second  husband." 


CHAPTER  VI 

OF  course  Mrs.  Armstrong  still  insisted  that,  know 
ing,  as  she  did,  Mr.  Winslow's  prejudice  against 
occupying  the  position  of  landlord,  she  could  not 
think  of  accepting  his  offer.     "Of  course  I  shall  not,"  she 
declared.     "I  am  flattered  to  know  that  you  consider  Bar 
bara  and  me  preferable  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Powless ;  but  even 
there  you  may  be  mistaken,  and,  beside,  why  should  you 
feel  you  must  endure  the  lesser  evil.     If  I  were  in  your 
place  I  shouldn't  endure  any  evil  at  all.     I  should  keep  the 
house  closed  and  empty,  just  as  you  have  been  doing." 

Captain  Sam  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "If  you  was 
in  his  place,"  he  observed,  "you  would  have  let  it  every 
year.  Don't  intertere  with  him,  Mrs.  Armstrong,  for  the 
land  sakes.  He's  showed  the  first  streak  of  common  sense 
about  that  house  that  he's  showed  since  the  Davidsons 
went  out.  Don't  ask  him  to  take  it  back." 

And  Jed  stubbornly  refused  to  take  it  back.  "I've  let 
it  to  you  for  a  month,  ma'am,"  he  insisted.  "It's  yours, 
furniture  and  all,  for  a  month.  You  won't  sell  that  Mrs. 
Powless  any  of  it,  will  you?"  he  added,  anxiously.  "Any 
of  the  furniture,  I  mean." 

Mrs.  Armstrong  scarcely  knew  whether  to  be  amused  or 
indignant. 

"Of  course  I  shouldn't  sell  it,"  she  declared.  "It 
wouldn't  be  mine  to  sell." 

Jed  looked  frightened.  "Yes,  'twould;  yes,  'twould,"  he 
persisted.  "That's  why  I'm  lettin'  it  to  you.  Then  I  can't 
sell  it  to  her ;  I  can't,  don't  you  see  ?" 

89 


90  "SHAVINGS" 


Captain  Sam  grinned.  "Fur's  that  goes,"  he  suggested, 
"I  don't  see's  you've  got  to  worry,  Jed.  You  don't  need  to 
sell  it,  to  her  or  anybody  else,  unless  you  want  to." 

But  Jed  looked  dubious.  "I  suppose  Jonah  cal'lated  he 
didn't  need  to  be  swallowed,"  he  mused.  "You  take  it, 
ma'am,  for  a  month,  as  a  favor  to  me." 

"But  how  can  I — like  this?  We  haven't  even  settled  the 
question  of  rent.  And  you  know  nothing  whatever  about 
me." 

He  seemed  to  reflect.     Then  he  asked : 

"Your  daughter  don't  sing  like  a  windmill,  does  she  ?" 

Barbara's  eyes  and  mouth  opened.  "Why,  Mamma !"  she 
exclaimed,  indignantly. 

"Hush,  Babbie.  Sing  like  a — what  ?  I  don't  understand, 
Mr.  Winslow." 

The  captain  burst  out  laughing.  "No  wonder  you  don't, 
ma'am,"  he  said.  "It  takes 'the  seven  wise  men  of  Greece 
to  understand  him  most  of  the  time.  You  leave  it  to  me, 
Mrs.  Armstrong.  He  and  I  will  talk  ^  over  together  and 
then  you  and  he  can  talk  to-morrow.  But  I  guess  likely 
you'll  have  the  house,  if  you  want  it;  Jed  doesn't  go  back 
on  his  word.  I  always  say  that  for  you,  don't  I,  old  saw 
dust?"  turning  to  the  gentleman  thus  nicknamed. 

Jed,  humming  a  mournful  hymn,  was  apparently  miles 
away  in  dreamland.  Yet  he  returned  to  earth  long  enough  to 
indulge  in  a  mild  bit  of  repartee.  "You  say  'most  every 
thing  for  me,  Sam,"  he  drawled,  "except  when  I  talk  in  my 
sleep." 

Mrs.  Armstrong  and  Barbara  left  a  moment  later,  the 
lady  saying  that  she  and  Mr.  Winslow  would  have  another 
interview  next  day.  Barbara  gravely  shook  hands  with 
both  men. 

"I  and  Petunia  hope  awfully  that  we  are  going  to  live 
here,  Mr.  Winslow,"  she  said,  "  'specially  Petunia." 


"SHAVINGS"  91 


Jed  regarded  her  gravely.  "Oh,  she  wants  to  more'n  you 
do,  then,  does  she  ?"  he  asked. 

The  child  looked  doubtful.  "No-o,"  she  admitted,  after 
a  moment's  reflection,  "but  she  can't  talk,  you  know,  and  so 
she  has  to  hope  twice  as  hard  else  I  wouldn't  know  it.  Good- 
by.  Oh,  I  forgot ;  Captain  Hedge  liked  his  swordfish  ever 
so  much.  He  said  it  was  a — a — oh,  yes,  humdinger." 

She  trotted  off  after  her  mother.  Captain  Hunniwell, 
after  a  chuckle  of  appreciation  over  the  "humdinger,"  began 
to  tell  his  friend  what  little  he  had  learned  concerning  the 
Armstrongs.  This  was,  of  course,  merely  what  Mrs.  Arm 
strong  herself  had  told  him  and  amounted  to  this:  She 
was  a  widow  whose  husband  had  been  a  physician  in 
Middlcford,  Connecticut.  His  name  was  Seymour  Arm 
strong  and  he  had  now  been  dead  four  years.  Mrs. 
Armstrong  and  Barbara,  the  latter  an  only  child,  had  con 
tinued  to  occupy  the  house  at  Middleford,  but  recently  the 
lady  had  come  to  feel  that  she  could  not  afford  to  live 
there  longer,  but  must  find  some  less  expensive  quarters. 

"She  didn't  say  so,"  volunteered  Captain  Sam,  "but  I 
judge  she  lost  a  good  deal  of  her  money,  bad  investments 
or  somethin'  like  that.  If  there's  any  bad  investment  any 
wheres  in  the  neighborhood  you  can  'most  generally  trust  a 
widow  to  hunt  it  up  and  put  her  insurance  money  into  it. 
Anyhow,  'twas  somethin'  like  that,  for  after  livin'  there 
a  spell,  just  as  she  did  when  her  husband  was  alive,  she 
all  at  once  decides  to  up  anchor  and  find  some  cheaper 
moorin's.  First  off,  though,  she  decided  to  spend  the  sum 
mer  in  a  cool  place  and  some  friend,  somebody  with  good, 
sound  judgment,  suggests  Orham.  So  she  lets  her  own 
place  in  Middleford,  comes  to  Orham,  falls  in  love  with 
the  place — same  as  any  sensible  person  would  naturally,  of 
course — and,  havin'  spent  'most  three  months  here,  decides 
she  wants  to  spend  nine  more  anyhow.  She  comes  to  the 


92  "SHAVINGS" 


bank  to  cash  a  check,  she  and  I  get  talkin',  she  tells  me  what 
she's  lookin'  for,  I  tell  her  I  cal'late  I've  got  a  place  in 
my  eye  that  I  think  might  be  just  the  thing,  and 

He  paused  to  bite  the  end  from  a  cigar.  His  friend 
finished  the  sentence  for  him. 

"And  then,"  he  said,  "you,  knowin'  that  I  didn't  want  to 
let  this  house  any  time  to  anybody,  naturally  sent  her  down 
to  look  at  it." 

"No  such  thing.  Course  I  knew  that  you'd  ought  to  let 
the  house  and,  likin'  the  looks  and  ways  of  these  Armstrong 
folks  first  rate,  I  give  in  that  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to 
send  her  down  to  look  at  it.  But,  afore  I  could  do  it,  the 
Almighty  sent  her  on  His  own  hook.  Which  proves,"  he 
added,  with  a  grin,  "that  my  judgment  has  pretty  good 
backin'  sometimes." 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin.  "Careful,  Sam,"  he  drawled,  "care 
ful.  The  Kaiser'll  be  gettin'  jealous  of  you  if  you  don't 
look  out.  But  what,"  he  inquired,  "made  her  and  the  little 
girl  move  out  of  Middleford,  or  wherever  'twas  they  lived? 
They  could  have  found  cheaper  quarters  there,  couldn't 
they?  Course  I  ain't  never  been  there,  but  seems  as  if 
they  could." 

"Sartin  they  could,  but  the  fact  of  their  movin'  is  what 
makes  me  pretty  sure  the  widow's  investments  had  turned 
sour.  It's  a  plaguey  sight  easier  to  begin  to  cut  down  and 
live  economical  in  a  place  where  nobody  knows  you  than 
'tis  in  one  where  everybody  has  known  you  for  years.  See 
that,  don't  you  ?" 

Jed  whistled  sadly,  breaking  off  in  the  middle  of  a  bar 
to  reply  that  he  didn't  know  as  he  did. 

"I've  never  cut  up,  so  cuttin'  down  don't  worry  me  much," 
he  observed.  "But  I  presume  likely  you're  right,  Sam; 
you  generally  are."  He  whistled  a  moment  longer,  his 
gaze  apparently  fixed  upon  a  point  in  the  middle  of  the 


"SHAVINGS"  93 


white  plastered  ceiling.  Then  he  said,  dreamily:  "Well, 
anyhow,  'twon't  be  but  a  month.  They'll  go  somewheres 
else  in  a  month." 

Captain  Sam  sniffed.  "Bet  you  a  dollar  they  won't/'  he 
retorted.  "Not  unless  you  turn  'em  out.  And  I  see  you 
turnin'  anybody  out." 

But  Mr.  Winslow  looked  hopeful.  "They'll  go  when 
the  month's  up,"  he  reiterated.  "Nobody  could  stand  me 
more  than  a  month.  Mother  used  to  say  so,  and  she'd 
known  me  longer  than  anybody." 

And  so,  in  this  curious  fashion,  did  tenants  come  to  the 
old  Winslow  house.  They  moved  in  on  the  following  Mon 
day.  Jed  saw  the  wagon  with  the  trunks  backing  up  to 
the  door  and  he  sighed.  Then  he  went  over  to  help  carry 
the  trunks  into  the  house. 

For  the  first  week  he  found  the  situation  rather  uncom 
fortable;  not  as  uncomfortable  as  he  had  feared,  but  a 
trifle  embarrassing,  nevertheless.  His  new  neighbors  were 
not  too  neighborly;  they  did  not  do  what  he  would  have 
termed  "pester"  him  by  running  in  and  out  of  the  shop  at 
all  hours,  nor  did  they  continually  ask  favors.  On  the 
other  hand  they  did  not,  like  his  former  tenants,  the  David 
sons,  treat  him  as  if  he  were  some  sort  of  odd  wooden 
image,  like  one  of  his  own  weather  vanes,  a  creature  without 
feelings,  to  be  displayed  and  "shown  off"  when  it  pleased 
them  and  ignored  when  it  did  not.  Mrs.  Armstrong  was 
always  quietly  cheerful  and  friendly  when  they  met  in  the 
yard  or  about  the  premises,  but  she  neither  intruded  nor 
patronized.  Jed's  first  impression  of  her,  a  favorable  one, 
was  strengthened  daily. 

"I  like  her  first-rate,"  he  told  Captain  Sam.  "She  ain't 
too  folksy  and  she  ain't  too  standoffish.  Why,  honest  truth, 
Sam,"  he  added,  ingenuously,  "she  treats  me  just  the  same 
as  if  I  was  like  the  common  run  of  folks." 


94  "SHAVINGS" 


The  captain  snorted.  "Gracious  king!  Do  stop  runnin' 
yourself  down,"  he  commanded.  "Suppose  you  are  a  little 
mite — er — different  from  the — well,  from  the  heft  of 
mackerel  in  the  keg,  what  of  it?  That's  your  own  private 
business,  ain't  it?" 

Jed's  lip  twitched.  "I  suppose  'tis,"  he  drawled.  "If  it 
wanvt  there  wouldn't  be  so  many  folks  interested  in  it." 

At  first  he  missed  the  freedom  to  which  he  had  accus 
tomed  himself  during  his  years  of  solitude,  the  liberty  of 
preparing  for  bed  with  the  doors  and  windows  toward  the 
sea  wide  open  and  the  shades  not  drawn;  of  strolling  out 
to  the  well  at  unearthly  hours  of  the  early  morning  singing 
at  the  top  of  his  lungs;  of  washing  face  and  hands  in  a 
tin  basin  on  a  bench  by  that  well  curb  instead  of  within 
doors.  There  were  some  necessary  concessions  to  conven 
tion  to  which  his  attention  was  called  by  Captain  Hunniwell, 
who  took  it  upon  himself  to  act  as  a  sort  of  social  mentor. 

"Do  you  always  wash  outdoors  there  ?"  asked  the  captain, 
after  watching  one  set  of  ablutions. 

"Why — er — yes,  I  'most  generally  do  in  good  weather. 
It's  sort  of — er — well,  sort  of  cool  and  roomy,  as  you 
might  say." 

"Roomy,  eh?  Gracious  king!  Well,  I  should  say  you 
needed  room.  You  splash  into  that  basin  like  a  kedge 
anchor  goin'  overboard  and  when  you  come  out  of  it  you 
puff  like  a  grampus  comin'  up  to  blow.  How  do  you 
cal'late  Mrs.  Armstrong  enjoys  seein'  you  do  that?" 

Jed  looked  startled  and  much  disturbed.  "Eh?"  he  ex 
claimed.  "Why,  I  never  thought  about  her,  Sam.  I  de 
clare  I  never  did.  I — I'll  fetch  the  wash  basin  inside  this 
very  minute." 

And  he  did.  The  inconvenience  attached  to  the  break 
ing  off  of  a  summer-time  habit  of  years  troubled  him  not 
half  as  much  as  the  fear  that  he  might  have  offended  a 


'SHAVINGS"  95 


fellow  creature's  sensibilities.  Jed  Winslow  was  far  too 
sensitive  himself  and  his  own  feelings  had  been  hurt  too 
many  times  to  make  hurting  those  of  another  a  small  offense 
in  his  eyes. 

But  these  were  minor  inconveniences  attached  to  his  new 
position  as  landlord.  There  were  recompenses.  At  work 
in  his  shop  he  could  see  through  the  window  the  white-clad, 
graceful  figure  of  Mrs.  Armstrong  moving  about  the  yard, 
sitting  with  Barbara  on  the  bench  by  the  edge  of  the  bluff, 
or  writing  a  letter  at  a  table  she  had  taken  out  under  the 
shadow  of  the  silver-leaf  tree.  Gradually  Jed  came  to 
enjoy  seeing  her  there,  to  see  the  windows  of  the  old  house 
open,  to  hear  voices  once  more  on  that  side  of  the  shop, 
and  to  catch  glimpses  of  Babbie  dancing  in  and  out  over 
the  shining  mica  slab  at  the  door. 

He  liked  the  child  when  he  first  met  her,  but  he  had 
been  a  little  fearful  that,  as  a  neighbor,  she  might  trouble 
him  by  running  in  and  out  of  the  shop,  interfering  with  his 
privacy  and  his  work  or  making  a  small  nuisance  of  herself 
when  he  was  waiting  on  customers.  But  she  did  none  of 
these  things,  in  fact  she  did  not  come  into  the  shop  at  all 
and,  after  the  first  week  had  passed,  he  began  to  wonder 
why.  Late  that  afternoon,  seeing  her  sitting  on  the  bench 
by  the  bluff  edge,  her  doll  in  her  arms,  he  came  out  of  the 
door  of  his  little  kitchen  at  the  back  of  the  shop  and  called 
her. 

"Good  evenin',"  he  hailed.  "Takin'  in  the  view,  was  you  ?" 

She  bobbed  her  head.  "Yes,  sir,"  she  called  in  reply; 
"Petunia  and  I  were  looking  at  it." 

"Sho!  Well,  what  do  you  and — er — What's-her-name 
think  of  it?" 

Barbara  pondered.  "We  think  it's  very  nice,"  she 
announced,  after  a  moment.  "Don't  you  like  it,  Mr. 
Winslow?" 


96  "SHAVINGS" 


"Eh  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  like  it,  I  guess.  I  ain't  really  had  time 
to  look  at  it  to-day;  been  too  busy." 

The  child  nodded,  sympathetically.  "That's  too  bad,"  she 
said.  Jed  had,  for  him,  a  curious  impulse,  and  acted  upon  it. 

"Maybe  I  might  come  and  look  at  it  now,  if  I  was  asked," 
he  suggested.  "Plenty  of  room  on  that  bench,  is  there?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,  there's  lots.  I  don't  take  much  room  and 
Petunia  almost  always  sits  on  my  lap.  Please  come." 

So  Jed  came  and,  sitting  down  upon  the  bench,  looked 
off  at  the  inlet  and  the  beach  and  the  ocean  beyond.  It 
was  the  scene  most  familiar  to  him,  one  he  had  seen,  under 
varying  weather  conditions,  through  many  summers  and 
winters.  This  very  thought  was  in  his  mind  as  he  looked  at 
it  now. 

After  a  time  he  became  aware  that  his  companion  was 
speaking. 

"Eh?"  he  ejaculated,  coming  out  of  his  reverie.  "Did 
you  say  somethin'?" 

"Yes,  sir,  three  times.  I  guess  you  were  thinking,  weren't 
you?" 

"Um-m — yes,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised.  It's  one  of  my 
bad  habits,  thinkin'  is." 

She  looked  hard  to  see  if  he  was  smiling,  but  he  was  not, 
and  she  accepted  the  statement  as  a  serious  one. 

"Is  thinking  a  bad  habit?"  she  asked.  "I  didn't  know 
it  was." 

"Cal'late  it  must  be.  If  it  wasn't,  more  folks  would  do 
it.  Tell  me,  now,"  he  added,  changing  the  subject  to  avoid 
further  cross-questioning,  "do  you  and  your  ma  like  it 
here?" 

The  answer  was  enthusiastic.  "Oh,  yes !"  she  exclaimed, 

"we  like  it  ever  and  ever  so  much.  Mamma  says  it's " 

Barbara  hesitated,  and  then,  after  what  was  evidently  a 


"SHAVINGS"  97 


severe  mental  struggle,  finished  with,  "she  said  once  it  was 
like  paradise  after  category." 

"After— which?" 

The  young  lady  frowned.  "It  doesn't  seem  to  me,"  she 
observed,  slowly,  "as  if  'category'  was  what  she  said.  Does 
'category'  sound  right  to  you,  Mr.  Winslow?" 

Jed  looked  doubtful.  "I  shouldn't  want  to  say  that  it 
did,  right  offhand  like  this,"  he  drawled. 

"No-o.  I  don't  believe  it  was  'category.'  But  I'm  almost 
sure  it  was  something  about  a  cat,  something  a  cat  eats — 

or  does — or  something.  Mew — mouse — milk "  she  was 

wrinkling  her  forehead  and  repeating  the  words  to  herself 
when  Mr.  Winslow  had  an  inspiration. 

" 'Twan't  purgatory,  was  it?"  he  suggested.  Miss  Bar 
bara's  head  bobbed  enthusiastically.  "Purr-gatory,  that  was 
it,"  she  declared.  "And  it  was  something  a  cat  does — purr, 
you  know;  I  knew  it  was.  Mamma  said  living  here  was 
paradise  after  purr-gatory." 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin. 

"I  cal'late  your  ma  didn't  care  much  for  the  board  at 
Luretta  Smalley's,"  he  observed.  He  couldn't  help  think 
ing  the  remark  an  odd  one  to  make  to  a  child. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  she  meant  Mrs.  Smalley's,"  explained 
Barbara.  "She  liked  Mrs.  Smalley's  pretty  well,  well  as 
any  one  can  like  boarding,  you  know,"  this  last  plainly  an 
other  quotation.  "I  think  she  meant  she  liked  living  here 
so  much  better  than  she  did  living  in  Middleford,  where  we 
used  to  be." 

"Hum,"  was  the  only  comment  Jed  made.  He  was 
surprised,  nevertheless.  Judged  by  what  Captain  Sam  had 
told  him,  the  Armstrong  home  at  Middleford  should  have 
been  a  pleasant  one.  Barbara  rattled  on. 

"I  guess  that  was  it,"  she  observed.  "She  was  sort  of 
talking  to  herself  when  she  said  it.  She  /vas  writing  a 


98  "SHAVINGS" 


letter — to  Uncle  Charlie,  I  think  it  was — and  I  and  Petunia 
asked  her  if  she  liked  it  here  and  she  sort  of  looked  at  me 
without  looking,  same  as  you  do  sometimes,  Mr.  Winslow, 
when  you're  thinking  of  something  else,  and  then  she  said 
that  about  the  catty — no,  the  purr-gatory.  And  when  I 
asked  her  what  purr-gatory  meant  she  said,  'Never  mind/ 
and  .  .  .  Oh,  I  forgot!"  in  consternation;  "she  told  me  I 
mustn't  tell  anybody  she  said  it,  either.  Oh,  dear  me!" 

Jed  hastened  to  reassure  her.  "Never  mind,"  he  de 
clared,  "I'll  forget  you  ever  did  say  it.  I'll  start  in  for- 
gettin'  now.  In  five  minutes  or  so  I'll  have  forgot  two 
words  of  it  already.  By  to-morrow  mornin'  I  wouldn't 
remember  it  for  money." 

"Truly?" 

"Truly  bluely,  lay  me  down  and  cut  me  in  twoly.  But 
what's  this  you're  sayin'  about  your  ma  lookin'  at  things 
without  seein'  'em,  same  as  I  do?  She  don't  do  that,  does 
she?" 

The  young  lady  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  said;  "course  not 
as  bad — I  mean  not  as  often  as  you  do,  but  sometimes, 

'specially  since She  hastily  clapped  her  hand  over 

her  mouth.  "Oh!"  she  exclaimed. 

"What's  the  matter?     Toothache?" 

"No.     Only  I  almost  told  another  somethin'  I  mustn't." 

"Sho !     Well,  I'm  glad  you  put  on  the  cover  just  in  time." 

"So  am  I.  What  else  was  I  talking  about?  Oh,  yes, 
Mamma's  thinking  so  hard,  same  as  you  do,  Mr.  Winslow. 
You  know,"  she  added,  earnestly,  "she  acts  quite  a  lot  like 
you  sometimes." 

Jed  looked  at  her  in  horror.  "Good  Lord !"  he  exclaimed. 
Then,  in  his  solemnest  drawl,  he  added,  "You  tell  her  to 
take  somethin'  for  it  afore  it's  too  late." 

As  he  rose  from  the  bench  he  observed:  "Haven't  seen 
you  over  to  th  jhop  since  you  moved  in.  I've  been  turnin' 


'SHAVINGS"  99 


out  another  school  of  swordfish  and  whales,  too.  Why 
don't  you  run  in  and  look  'em  over?" 

She  clapped  her  hands.  "Oh,  may  I  ?"  she  cried.  "I've 
wanted  to  ever  and  ever  so  much,  but  Mamma  said  not 
to  because  it  might  annoy  you.  Wouldn't  it  annoy  you, 
truly?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

"Oh.  goody!     And  might  Petunia  come,  too?" 

"Um-hm.  Only,"  gravely,  "she'll  have  to  promise  not  to 
talk  too  much.  Think  she'll  promise  that?  All  right;  then 
fetch  her  along." 

So,  the  very  next  morning,  when  Jed  was  busy  at  the 
bandsaw,  he  was  not  greatly  surprised  when  the  door  opened 
and  Miss  Barbara  appeared,  with  Petunia  in  her  arms. 
He  was  surprised,  however,  and  not  a  little  embarrassed 
when  Mrs.  Armstrong  followed. 

"Good  morning,"  said  the  lady,  pleasantly.  "I  came  over 
to  make  sure  that  there  hadn't  been  a  mistake.  You  really 
did  ask  Babby  to  come  in  and  see  you  at  work  ?" 

<fYes,  ma'am,  I — I  did.     I  did,  sartin." 

"And  you  don't  mind  having  her  here  ?  She  won't  annoy 
you?" 

"Not  a  mite.     Real  glad  to  have  her." 

"Very  well,  then  she  may  stay — an  hour,  but  no  longer. 
Mind,  Babby,  dear,  I  am  relying  on  you  not  to  annoy  Mr. 
Winslow." 

So  the  juvenile  visitor  stayed  her  hour  and  then  obediently 
went  away,  in  spite  of  Jed's  urgent  invitation  to  stay  longer. 
She  had  asked  a  good  many  questions  and  talked  almost 
continuously,  but  Mr.  Winslow,  instead  of  being  bored  by 
her  prattle,  was  surprised  to  find  how  empty  and  uninterest 
ing  the  shop  seemed  after  she  had  quitted  it. 

She  came  again  the  next  day  and  the  next.  By  the  end 
of  the  week  Jed  had  become  sufficiently  emboldened  to 


ioo  "SHAVINGS" 


ask  her  mother  to  permit  her  to  come  in  the  afternoon  also. 
This  request  was  the  result  of  a  conspiracy  between  Bar 
bara  and  himself. 

"You  ask  your  ma,"  urged  Jed.  "Tell  her  I  say  I  need 
you  here  afternoons." 

Barbara  looked  troubled.  "But  that  would  be  a  wrong 
story,  wouldn't  it  ?"  she  asked.  "You  don't  really  need  me, 
you  know." 

"Eh?    Yes,  I  do;  yes,  I  do." 

"What  for?    What  shall  I  tell  her  you  need  me  for?" 

Jed  scratched  his  chin  with  the  tail  of  a  wooden  whale. 

"You  tell  her,"  he  drawled,  after  considering  for  a  minute 
or  two,  "that  I  need  you  to  help  carry  lumber." 

Even  a  child  could  not  swallow  this  ridiculous  excuse. 
Barbara  burst  out  laughing. 

"Why,  Mr.  Winslow!"  she  cried.  "You  don't,  either. 
You  know  I  couldn't  carry  lumber;  I'm  too  little.  I 
couldn't  carry  any  but  the  littlest,  tiny  bit." 

Jed  nodded,  gravely.  "Yes,  sartin,"  he  agreed;  "that's 
what  I  need  you  to  carry.  You  run  along  and  tell  her  so, 
that's  a  good  girl." 

But  she  shook  her  head  vigorously.  "No,"  she  declared. 
"She  would  say  it  was  silly,  and  it  would  be.  Besides,  you 
don't  really  need  me  at  all.  You  just  want  Petunia  and 
me  for  company,  same  as  we  want  you.  Isn't  that  it, 
truly?" 

"Um-m.  Well,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  You  can  tell  her 
that,  if  you  want  to;  I'd  just  as  soon." 

The  young  lady  still  hesitated.  "No-o,"  she  said,  "be 
cause  she'd  think  perhaps  you  didn't  really  want  me,  but 
was  too  polite  to  say  so.  If  you  asked  her  yourself,  though, 
I  think  she'd  let  me  come." 

At  first  Jed's  bashfulness  was  up  in  arms  at  the  very- 
idea,  but  at  length  he  considered  to  ask  Mrs.  Armstrong 


'SHAVINGS"  101 


for  the  permission.  It  was  granted,  as  soon  as  the  lady 
was  convinced  that  the  desire  for  more  of  her  daughter's 
society  was  a  genuine  one,  and  thereafter  Barbara  visited 
the  windmill  shop  afternoons  as  well  as  mornings.  She 
sat,  her  doll  in  her  arms,  upon  a  box  which  she  soon  came 
to  consider  her  own  particular  and  private  seat,  watching 
her  long-legged  friend  as  he  sawed  or  glued  or  jointed  or 
painted.  He  had  little  waiting  on  customers  to  do  now, 
for  most  of  the  summer  people  had  gone.  His  small  visitor 
and  he  had  many  long  and,  to  them,  interesting  conversa 
tions. 

Other  visitors  to  the  shop,  those  who  knew  him  well, 
were  surprised  and  amused  to  find  him  on  such  confidential 
and  intimate  terms  with  a  child.  Gabe  Bearse,  after  one 
short  call,  reported  about  town  that  crazy  Shavin's  Winslow 
had  taken  up  with  a  young-one  just  about  as  crazy  as  he 
was. 

"There  she  set,"  declared  Gabriel,  "on  a  box,  hugging  a 
broken-nosed  doll  baby  up  to  her  and  starin'  at  me  and 
Shavin's  as  if  we  was  some  kind  of  curiosities,  as  you 
might  say.  Well,  one  of  us  was;  eh?  Haw,  haw!  She 
didn't  say  a  word  and  Shavin's  he  never  said  nothin'  and 
I  felt  as  if  I  was  preaching  in  a  deef  and  dumb  asylum. 
Finally,  I  happened  to  look  at  her  and  I  see  her  lips  movm'. 
'Well,'  says  I,  'you  can  talk,  can't  you,  sis,  even  if  it's  only 
to  yourself.  What  was  you  talkin'  to  yourself  about,  eh?' 
She  didn't  seem  to  want  to  answer;  just  sort  of  reddened 
up,  you  know;  but  I  kept  right  after  her.  Finally  she 
owned  up  she  was  countin'.  'What  was  you  countin'  ?'  says 
I.  Well,  she  didn't  want  to  tell  that,  neither.  Finally  I 
dragged  it  out  of  her  that  she  was  countin'  how  many 
words  I'd  said  since  I  started  to  tell  about  Melissy  Busteed 
and  what  she  said  about  Luther  Small's  wife's  aunt,  the 
one  that's  so  wheezed  up  with  asthma  and  Doctor  Parker 


102  "SHAVINGS" 


don't  seem  to  be  able  to  do  nothin'  to  help.  'So  you  was 
countin'  my  words,  was  you?'  says  I.  'Well,  that's  good 
business,  I  must  say !  How  many  have  I  said  ?'  She  looked 
solemn  and  shook  her  head.  'I  had  to  give  it  up,'  says  she. 
'It  makes  my  head  ache  to  count  fast  very  long.  Doesn't  it 
give  you  a  headache  to  count  fast,  Mr.  Winslow?'  Jed,  he 
mumbled  some  kind  of  foolishness  about  some  things  givin' 
him  earache.  I  laughed  at  the  two  of  'em.  'Humph !'  says 
I,  'the  only  kind  of  aches  I  have  is  them  in  my  bones,' 
meanin'  my  rheumatiz,  you  understand.  Shavin's  he 
looked  moony  up  at  the  roof  for  about  a  week  and  a  half, 
same  as  he's  liable  to  do,  and  then  he  drawled  out :  'You 
see  he  does  have  headache,  Babbie/  says  he.  Now  did  you 
ever  hear  such  fool  talk  outside  of  an  asylum?  He  and  that 
Armstrong  k^d  are  well  matched.  No  wonder  she  sits  in 
there  and  gapes  at  him  half  the  day." 

Captain  Sam  Hunniwell  and  his  daughter  were  hugely 
tickled. 

"Jed's  got  a  girl  at  last,"  crowed  the  captain.  "I'd  about 
given  up  hope,  Jed.  I  was  fearful  that  the  bloom  of  your 
youth  would  pass  away  from  you  and  you  wouldn't  keep 
company  with  anybody.  You're  so  bashful  that  I  know 
you'd  never  call  on  a  young  woman,  but  I  never  figured  that 
one  might  begin  callin'  on  you.  Course  she's  kind  of  extra 
young,  but  she'll  grow  out  of  that,  give  her  time." 

Maud  Hunniwell  laughed  merrily,  enjoying  Mr. 
Winslow's  confusion.  "Oh,  the  little  girl  is  only  the  bait, 
Father,"  she  declared.  "It  is  the  pretty  widow  that  Jed 
is  fishing  for.  She'll  be  calling  here  soon,  or  he'll  be  call 
ing  there.  Isn't  that  true,  Jed?  Own  up,  now.  Oh,  see 
him  blush,  Father!  Just  see  him!" 

Jed,  of  course,  denied  that  he  was  blushing.  His  fair 
tormentor  had  no  mercy. 

"You  must  be,"  she  insisted.     "At  any  rate  your  face 


"SHAVINGS"  103 


is  very,  very  red.  I'll  leave  it  to  Father.  Isn't  his  face 
red,  Father?" 

"Red  as  a  flannel  lung-protector,"  declared  Captain  Sam,, 
who  was  never  known  to  contradict  his  only  daughter,  nor, 
so  report  affirmed,  deny  a  request  of  hers. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  triumphantly.  "And  it  can't  be  the 
heat,  because  it  isn't  at  all  warm  here." 

Poor  Jed,  the  long-suffering,  was  goaded  into  a  mild 
retort. 

"There's  consider'ble  hot  air  in  here  some  spells,"  he 
drawled,  mournfully.  Miss  Hunniwell  went  away  reaffirm 
ing  her  belief  that  Mr.  Winslow's  friendship  for  the 
daughter  was  merely  a  strategical  advance  with  the  mother 
as  the  ultimate  objective. 

"You'll  see,  Father,"  she  prophesied,  mischievously. 
"We  shall  hear  of  his  'keeping  company'  with  Mrs.  Arm 
strong  soon.  Oh,  he  couldn't  escape  even  if  he  wanted  to. 
These  young  widows  are  perfectly  irresistible." 

When  they  were  a  safe  distance  from  the  windmill  shop 
the  captain  cautioned  his  daughter. 

"Maud,"  he  said,  "you'd  better  not  tease  Jed  too  much 
about  that  good-lookin'  tenant  of  his.  He's  so  queer  and 
so  bashful  that  I'm  afraid  if  you  do  he'll  take  a  notion  to 
turn  the  Armstrongs  out  when  this  month's  up." 

Miss  Hunniwell  glanced  at  him  from  the  corner  of  her 
eye. 

"Suppose  he  does?"  she  asked.  "What  of  it?  She  isn't 
a  great  friend  of  yours,  is  she,  Father?" 

It  was  the  captain's  turn  to  look  embarrassed. 

"No,  no,  course  she  ain't,"  he  declared,  hastily,  "All 
I've  been  thinkin'  is  that  Jed  ought  to  have  a  tenant  in  that 
house  of  his,  because  he  needs  the  money.  And  from  what 
I've  been  able  to  find  out  about  this  Mrs.  Armstrong  she's 
a  real  nice  genteel  sort  of  body,  and — and — er " 


104  "SHAVINGS" 


"And  she's  very  sweet  and  very  pretty  and  so,  of  course, 
naturally,  all  the  men,  especially  the  middle-aged  men " 

Captain  Sam  interrupted  explosively.  "Don't  be  so  fool 
ish!"  he  ordered.  "If  you  don't  stop  talkin'  such  nonsense 
I'll — I  don't  know  what  I'll  do  to  you.  What  do  you  sup 
pose  her  bein'  sweet  and  good-lookin'  has  got  to  do  with  me  ? 
Gracious  king!  I've  got  one  good-lookin' — er — that  is  to 
say,  I've  got  one  young  female  to  take  care  of  now  and  that's 
enough,  in  all  conscience." 

His  daughter  pinched  his  arm. 

"Oh,  ho!"  she  observed.  "You  were  going  to  say  she 
was  good-looking  and  then  you  changed  your  mind.  Don't 
you  think  this  young  female — what  a  word!  you  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  it — don't  you  think  she  is  good-looking, 
Daddy,  dear?" 

She  looked  provokingly  up  into  his  face  and  he  looked 
fondly  down  into  hers. 

"Don't  you?"  she  repeated. 

"We-11,  I — I  don't  know  as  I'd  want  to  go  so  far  as  to 
say  that.  I  presume  likely  her  face  might  not  stop  a. 
meetin'-house  clock  on  a  dark  night,  but " 

As  they  were  in  a  secluded  spot  where  a  high  hedge 
screened  them  from  observation  Miss  Maud  playfully  boxed 
her  parent's  ears,  a  proceeding  which  he  seemed  to  enjoy 
hugely. 

But  there  was  reason  in  the  captain's  caution,  neverthe 
less.  Miss  Maud's  "teasing"  concerning  the  widow  had  set 
Jed  to  thinking.  The  "trial"  month  was  almost  up.  In  a 
little  while  he  would  have  to  give  his  decision  as  to  whether 
the  little  Winslow  house  was  to  continue  to  be  occupied 
by  Barbara  and  her  mother,  or  whether  it  was  to  be,  as 
it  had  been  for  years,  closed  and  shuttered  tight.  He  had 
permitted  them  to  occupy  it  for  that  month,  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment,  as  the  result  of  a  promise  made  upon  impulse, 


"SHAVINGS"  105 


a  characteristic  Jed  Winslow  impulse.  Now,  however,  he 
must  decide  in  cold  blood  whether  or  not  it  should  be 
theirs  for  another  eleven  months  at  least. 

In  his  conversation  with  Captain  Sam,  the  conversation 
which  took  place  immediately  after  the  Armstrongs  came, 
he  had  stoutly  maintained  that  the  latter  would  not  wish  to 
stay  longer  than  the  month,  that  his  own  proximity  as  land 
lord  and  neighbor  would  be  unbearable  longer  than  that 
period.  But  if  the  widow  found  it  so  she  had  so  far  shown 
no  evidence  of  her  disgust.  Apparently  that  means  of 
breaking  off  the  relationship  could  not  be  relied  upon.  Of 
course  he  did  not  know  whether  or  not  she  wished  to  re 
main,  but,  if  she  did,  did  he  wish  her  to  do  so  ?  There  was 
nothing  personal  in  the  matter;  it  was  merely  the  question 
as  to  whether  his  prejudice  of  years  against  renting  that 
house  to  any  one  was  to  rule  or  be  overthrown.  If  she  asked 
him  for  his  decision  what  should  he  say?  At  night,  when 
he  went  to  bed,  his  mind  was  made  up.  In  the  morning 
when  he  arose  it  was  unmade.  As  he  told  Captain  Hunni- 
well :  "I'm  like  that  old  clock  I  used  to  have,  Sam.  The 
pendulum  of  that  thing  used  to  work  fine,  but  the  hands 
wouldn't  move.  Same  way  with  me.  I  tick,  tick,  tick  all 
day  over  this  pesky  business,  but  I  don't  get  anywheres. 
It's  always  half-past  nothin'." 

Captain  Sam  was  hugely  disgusted.  "It  ain't  more'n 
quarter  past,  if  it  is  that,"  he  declared,  emphatically.  "It's 
just  nothin',  if  you  ask  me.  And  say,  speakin'  of  askin', 
I'd  like  to  ask  you  this :  How  are  you  goin'  to  get  'em  out, 
provided  you're  fool  enough  to  decide  they've  got  to  go? 
Are  you  goin'  to  tell  Mrs.  Armstrong  right  up  and  down 
and  flat-footed  that  you  can't  stand  any  more  of  her?  I'd 
like  to  hear  you  say  it.  Let  me  know  when  the  show's 
goin'  to  come  off.  I  want  a  seat  in  the  front  row." 

Poor  Jed  looked  aghast  at  the  very  idea.     His  friend 


106  "SHAVINGS" 


laughed  derisively  and  walked  off  and  left  him.  And  the 
days  passed  and  the  "trial  month"  drew  closer  and  closer 
to  its  end  until  one  morning  he  awoke  to  realize  that  that 
end  had  come;  the  month  was  up  that  very  day. 

He  had  not  mentioned  the  subject  to  the  widow,  nor  had 
she  to  him.  His  reasons  for  not  speaking  were  obvious 
enough;  one  was  that  he  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and 
the  other  that  he  was  afraid  to  say  it.  But,  as  the  time 
approached  when  the  decision  must  be  made,  he  had  ex 
pected  that  she  would  spea"k.  And  she  had  not.  He  saw 
her  daily,  sometimes  several  times  a  day.  She  often  came 
into  the  shop  to  find  Barbara,  who  made  the  workroom  a 
playhouse  on  rainy  or  cloudy  days,  and  she  talked  with  him 
on  other  topics,  but  she  did  not  mention  this  one. 

It  was  raining  on  this  particular  day,  the  last  day  in  the 
"trial  month,"  and  Jed,  working  at  his  lathe,  momentarily 
expected  Barbara  to  appear,  with  Petunia  under  one  arm 
and  a  bundle  of  dolls'  clothes  under  the  other,  to  announce 
casually  that,  as  it  was  such  bad  weather,  they  had  run  in 
to  keep  him,  Mr.  Winslow,  from  getting  lonesome.  There 
was  precious  little  opportunity  to  be  lonesome  where  Bab 
bie  was. 

But  this  morning  the  child  did  not  come  and  Jed,  won 
dering  what  the  reason  for  her  absence  might  be,  began  to 
feel  vaguely  uncomfortable.  Just  what  was  the  matter  he 
did  not  know,  but  that  there  was  something  wrong  with 
him,  Jed  Winslow,  was  plain.  He  could  not  seem  to  keep 
his  mind  on  his  work;  he  found  himself  wandering  to  the 
window  and  looking  out  into  the  yard,  where  the  lilac 
bushes  whipped  and  thrashed  in  the  gusts,  the  overflowing 
spouts  splashed  and  gurgled,  and  the  sea  beyond  the  edge 
of  the  bluff  was  a  troubled  stretch  of  gray  and  white, 
seen  through  diagonal  streaks  of  wind-driven  rain.  And 
always  when  he  looked  out  of  that  window  he  glanced 


'SHAVINGS"  107 


toward  the  little  house  next  door,  hoping  to  see  a  small 
figure,  bundled  under  a  big  rain  coat  and  sheltered  by  a  big 
umbrella,  dodge  out  of  the  door  and  race  across  the  yard 
toward  the  shop. 

But  the  door  remained  shut,  the  little  figure  did  not  appear 
and,  except  for  the  fact  that  the  blinds  were  not  closed 
and  that  there  was  smoke  issuing  from  the  chimney  of  the 
kitchen,  the  little  house  might  have  been  as  empty  as  it  had 
been  the  month  before. 

Or  as  it  might  be  next  month.  The  thought  came  to  Jed 
with  a  meaning  and  emphasis  which  it  had  not  brought 
before.  A  stronger  gust  than  usual  howled  around  the 
eaves  of  the  shop,  the  sashes  rattled,  the  panes  were  beaten 
by  the  flung  raindrops  which  pounded  down  in  watery  sheets 
to  the  sills,  and  Jed  suddenly  diagnosed  his  own  case,  he 
knew  what  was  the  matter  with  him — he  was  lonesome ;  he, 
who  had  lived  alone  for  five  years  and  had  hoped  to  live 
alone  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  was  lonesome. 

He  would  not  admit  it,  even  to  himself;  it  was  ridiculous. 
He  was  not  lonesome,  he  was  just  a  little  "blue,"  that  was 
all.  It  was  the  weather ;  he  might  have  caught  a  slight  cold, 
perhaps  his  breakfast  had  not  agreed  with  him.  He  tried 
to  remember  what  that  breakfast  had  been.  It  had  been 
eaten  in  a  hurry,  he  had  been  thinking  of  something  else 
as  usual,  and,  except  that  it  consisted  of  various  odds  and 
ends  which  he  had  happened  to  have  on  hand,  he  could  not 
itemize  it  with  exactness.  There  had  been  some  cold  fried 
potatoes,  and  some  warmed-over  pop-overs  which  had 
"slumped"  in  the  cooking,  and  a  doughnut  or  two  and — oh, 
yes,  a  saucer  of  canned  peaches  which  had  been  sitting 
around  for  a  week  and  ,hich  he  had  eaten  to  get  out  of  the 
way.  These,  with  a  cup  of  warmed-over  coffee,  made  up 
the  meal.  Jed  couldn't  see  why  a  breakfast  of  that  kind 
should  make  him  "blue."  And  yet  he  was  blue — yes,  and 


io8  "SHAVINGS" 


there  was  no  use  disguising  the  fact,  he  was  lonesome.  If. 
that  child  would  only  come,  as  she  generally  did,  her  non 
sense  might  cheer  him  up  a  bit.  But  she  did  not  come. 
And  if  he  decided  not  to  permit  her  mother  to  occupy  the 
house,  she  would  not  come  much  more.  Eh  ?  Why,  it  was 
the  last  day  of  the  month !  She  might  never  come  again  ! 

Jed  shut  off  the  motor  and  turned  away  from  the  lathe. 
He  sank  down  into  his  little  chair,  drew  his  knee  up  under 
his  chin,  and  thought,  long  and  seriously.  When  the  knee 
slid  down  to  its  normal  position  once  more  his  mind  was 
made  up.  Mrs.  Armstrong  might  remain  in  the  little  house 
— for  a  few  months  more,  at  any  rate.  Even  if  she  insisted 
upon  a  year's  lease  it  wouldn't  do  any  great  harm.  He 
would  wait  until  she  spoke  to  him  about  it  and  then  he  would 
give  his  consent.  And — and  it  would  please  Captain  Sam, 
at  any  rate. 

He  rose  and,  going  to  the  window,  looked  out  once  more 
across  the  yard.  What  he  saw  astonished  him.  The  back 
door  of  the  house  was  partially  open  and  a  man  was  just 
coming  out.  The  man,  in  dripping  oil-skins  and  a 
sou'wester,  was  Philander  Hardy,  the  local  expressman. 
Philander  turned  and  spoke  to  some  one  in  the  house  behind 
him.  Jed  opened  the  shop  door  a  crack  and  listened. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  heard  Hardy  say.  "I'll  be  back  for 
'em  about  four  o'clock  this  afternoon.  Rain  may  let  up  a 
little  mite  by  that  time,  and  anyhow,  I'll  have  the  covered 
wagon.  Your  trunks  won't  get  wet,  ma'am;  I'll  see  to 
that." 

A  minute  later  Jed,  an  old  sweater  thrown  over  his  head 
and  shoulders,  darted  out  of  the  iront  door  of  his  shop. 
The  express  wagon  with  Hardy  on  the  driver's  seat  was  just 
moving  off.  Jed  called  after  it. 

"Hi,  Philander !"  he  called,  raising  his  voice  only  a  little, 


"SHAVINGS"  109 


for  fear  of  being  overheard  at  the  Armstrong  house.  "Hi, 
Philander,  come  here  a  minute.  I  want  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Hardy  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  then  backed  his 
equipage  opposite  the  Winslow  gate. 

"Hello,  Jedidah  Shavin's,"  he  observed,  with  a  grin. 
"Didn't  know  you  for  a  minute,  with  that  shawl  over 
your  front  crimps.  What  you  got  on  your  mind ;  anything 
except  sawdust?" 

Jed  was  too  much  perturbed  even  to  resent  the  loathed 
name  "Jedidah." 

"Philander,"  he  whispered,  anxiously;  "say,  Philander, 
what  does  she  want?  Mrs.  Armstrong,  I  mean?  What  is 
it  you're  comin'  back  for  at  four  o'clock  ?" 

Philander  looked  down  at  the  earnest  face  under  the 
ancient  sweater.  Then  he  winked,  solemnly. 

"Well,  I  tell  you,  Shavin's,"  he  said.  "You  see,  I  don't 
know  how  'tis,  but  woman  folks  always  seem  to  take  a 

terrible  shine  to  me.  Now  this  Mrs.  Armstrong  here 

Say,  she's  some  peach,  ain't  she ! — she  ain't  seen  me  more'n 
half  a  dozen  times,  but  here  she  is  beggin'  me  to  fetch  her 
my  photograph.  'It's  rainin'  pretty  hard,  to-day,'  I  says. 
'Won't  it  do  if  I  fetch  it  to-morrow  ?'  But  no,  she " 

Jed  held  up  a  protesting  hand.  "I  don't  doubt  she  wants 
your  photograph,  Philander,"  he  drawled.  "Your  kind  of 
face  is  rare.  But  I  heard  you  say  somethin'  about  comin' 
for  trunks.  Whose  trunks  ?" 

"Whose?  Why,  hers  and  the  young-one's,  I  presume 
likely.  'Twas  them  I  fetched  from  Luretta  Smalley's. 
Now  she  wants  me  to  take  'em  back  there." 

A  tremendous  gust,  driven  in  from  the  sea,  tore  the 
sweater  from  the  Winslow  head  and  shoulders  and  wrapped 
it  lovingly  about  one  of  the  posts  in  the  yard.  Jed  did  not 
offer  to  recover  it ;  he  scarcely  seemed  to  know  that  it  was 
gone.  Instead  he  stood  staring  at  the  express  driver,  while 


no  "SHAVINGS" 


the  rain  ran  down  his  nose  and  dripped  from  its  tip  to  his 
chin. 

"She — she's  goin'  back  to  Luretta  Smalley's?"  he  re 
peated.  "She- 
He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  Instead  he  turned  on  his 
heel  and  walked  slowly  back  to  the  shop.  The  sweater, 
wrapped  about  the  post  where,  in  summer,  a  wooden  sailor 
brandished  his  paddles,  flapped  soggily  in  the  wind.  Hardy 
gazed  after  him. 

"What  in  time ?"  he  exclaimed.  Then,  raising  his 

voice,  he  called :  "Hi,  Jed !  Jed!  You  crazy  critter !  What 
— Jed,  hold  on  a  minute,  didn't  you  know  she  was  goin'? 
Didn't  she  tell  you?  Jed!" 

But  Jed  had  entered  the  shop  and  closed  the  door. 
Philander  drove  off,  shaking  his  head  and  chuckling  to 
himself. 

A  few  minutes  later  Mrs.  Armstrong,  hearing  a  knock  at 
the  rear  door  of  the  Winslow  house,  opened  it  to  find  her 
landlord  standing  on  the  threshold.  He  was  bareheaded 
and  he  had  no  umbrella. 

"Why,  Mr.  Winslow!"  she  exclaimed.  It  was  the  first 
time  that  he  had  come  to  that  house  of  his  own  accord  since 
she  had  occupied  it.  Now  he  stood  there,  in  the  rain, 
looking  at  her  without  speaking. 

"Why,  Mr.  Winslow,"  she  said  again.  "What  is  it? 
Come  in,  won't  you ?  You're  soaking  wet.  Come  in!" 

Jed  looked  down  at  the  sleeves  of  his  jacket.  "Eh?"  he 
drawled,  slowly.  "Wet?  Why,  I  don't  know's  I  ain't — a 
little.  It's — it's  rainin'." 

"Raining!     It's  pouring.     Come  in." 

She  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  through  the  wood 
shed  and  into  the  kitchen.  She  would  have  led  him  further, 
into  the  sitting-room,  but  he  hung  back. 


'SHAVINGS"  in 


"No,  ma'am,  no,"  he  said.  "I — I  guess  I'll  stay  here,  if 
you  don't  mind." 

There  was  a  patter  of  feet  from  the  sitting-room  and 
Barbara  came  running,  Petunia  in  her  arms.  At  the  sight 
of  their  visitor's  lanky  form  the  child's  face  brightened. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Winslow !"  she  cried.  '  Did  you  come  to  see 
where  Petunia  and  I  were?  Did  you?" 

Jed  looked  down  at  her.  "Why — why,  I  don't  know's  I 
didn't,"  he  admitted.  "I — I  kind  of  missed  you,  I  guess." 

"Yes,  and  we  missed  you.  You  see,  Mamma  said  we 
mustn't  go  to  the  shop  to-day  because —  Oh,  Mamma, 
perhaps  he  has  come  to  tell  you  we  won't  have  to — — " 

Mrs.  Armstrong  interrupted.  "Hush,  Babbie,"  she  said, 
quickly.  "I  told  Barbara  not  to  go  to  visit  you  to-day,  Mr. 
Winslow.  She  has  been  helping  me  with  the  packing." 

Jed  swallowed  hard.  "Packin'?"  he  repeated.  "You've 
been  packin'  ?  Then  'twas  true,  what  Philander  Hardy  said 
about  your  goin'  back  to  Luretta's  ?" 

The  lady  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  replied.  "Our  month  here 
ends  to-day.  Of  course  you  knew  that." 

Jed  sighed  miserably.  "Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "I  knew 
it,  but  I  only  just  realized  it,  as  you  might  say.  I  ... 
Hum!  .  .  .  Well  .  .  ." 

He  turned  away  and  walked  slowly  toward  the  kitchen 
door.  Barbara  would  have  followed  but  her  mother  laid 
a  detaining  hand  upon  her  shoulder.  On  the  threshold  of 
the  door  between  the  dining-room  and  kitchen  Jed  paused. 

"Ma'am,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  "you — you  don't  cal'late 
there's  anything  I  can  do  to — to  help,  is  there?  Anything 
in  the  packin'  or  movin'  or  anything  like  that?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Winslow.  The  packing  was  very 
simple." 

"Er — yes,  ma'am.  .  .  .  Yes,  ma'am." 

He  stopped,  seemed  about  to  speak  again,  but  evidently 


H2  "SHAVINGS" 


changed  his  mind,  for  he  opened  the  door  and  went  out 
into  the  rain  without  another  word.  Barbara,  very  much 
surprised  and  hurt,  looked  up  into  her  mother's  face. 

"Why,  Mamma,"  she  cried,  '  'has — has  he  gone?  He 
didn't  say  good-by  to  us  or — or  anything.  He  didn't  even 
say  he  was  sorry  we  were  going." 

Mrs.  Armstrong  shook  her  head. 

"I  imagine  that  is  because  he  isn't  sorry,  my  dear,"  she 
replied.  "You  must  remember  that  Mr.  Winslow  didn't 
really  wish  to  let  any  one  live  in  this  house.  We  only  came 
here  by — well,  by  accident." 

But  Barbara  was  unconvinced. 

"He  isn't  glad,"  she  declared,  stoutly.  "He  doesn't  act 
that  way  when  he  is  glad  about  things.  You  see,"  she 
added,  with  the  air  of  a  Mrs.  Methusaleh,  "Petunia  and  I 
know  him  better  than  you  do,  Mamma;  we've  had  more 
chances  to  get — to  get  acquainted." 

Perhaps  an  hour  later  there  was  another  knock  at  the 
kitchen  door.  Mrs.  Armstrong,  when  she  opened  it,  found 
her  landlord  standing  there,  one  of  his  largest  windmills — 
a  toy  at  least  three  feet  high — in  his  arms.  He  bore  it  into 
the  kitchen  and  stood  it  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  holding 
the  mammoth  thing,  its  peaked  roof  high  above  his  head, 
and  peering  solemnly  out  between  one  of  its  arms  and  its 
side. 

"Why,  Mr.  Winslow!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Armstrong. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Jed.  "I— I  fetched  it  for  Babbie.  I 
just  kind  of  thought  maybe  she'd  like  it." 

Barbara  clasped  her  hands. 

"Oh !"  she  exclaimed.     "Oh,  is  it  for  me  ?" 

Jed  answered. 

"  Tis,  if  you  want  it,"  he  said. 

"Want  it  ?  Why,  Mamma,  it's  one  of  the  very  best  mills ! 
It's  a  five  dollar  one,  Mamma !" 


"SHAVINGS"  113 


Mrs.  Armstrong  protested.  "Oh,  I  couldn't  let  you  do 
that,  Mr.  Winslow,"  she  declared.  "It  is  much  too  expen 
sive  a  present.  And  besides " 

She  checked  herself  just  in  time.  It  had  been  on  the  tip 
of  her  tongue  to  say  that  she  did  not  know  what  they  could 
do  with  it.  Their  rooms  at  Mrs.  Smalley's  were  not  large. 
It  was  as  if  a  dweller  in  a  Harlem  flat  had  been  presented 
with  a  hippopotamus. 

The  maker  of  the  mill  looked  about  him,  plainly  seeking 
a  place  to  deposit  his  burden. 

"  'Tisn't  anything  much,"  he  said,  hastily.  "I — I'm  real 
glad  for  you  to  have  it." 

He  was  about  to  put  it  on  top  of  the  cookstove,  in  which 
there  was  a  roaring  fire,  but  Mrs.  Armstrong,  by  a  startled 
exclamation  and  a  frantic  rush,  prevented  his  doing  so.  So 
he  put  it  on  the  table  instead.  Barbara  thanked  him  pro 
fusely.  She  was  overjoyed;  there  were  no  comparisons 
with  hippopotami  in  her  mind.  Jed  seemed  pleased  at  her 
appreciation,  but  he  did  not  smile.  Instead  he  sighed. 

"I — I  just  thought  I  wanted  her  to  have  it,  ma'am,"  he 
said,  turning  to  Mrs.  Armstrong.  "  'Twould  keep  her  from 
— from  forgettin'  me  altogether,  maybe.  .  .  .  Not  that 
there's  any  real  reason  why  she  should  remember  me,  of 
course,"  he  added. 

Barbara  was  hurt  and  indignant. 

"Of  course  I  shan't  forget  you,  Mr.  Winslow,"  she  de 
clared.  "Neither  will  Petunia.  And  neither  will  Mamma, 
I  know.  She  feels  awful  bad  because  you  don't  want  us  to 
live  here  any  longer,  and " 

"Hush,  Babbie,  hush !"  commanded  her  mother.  Barbara 
hushed,  but  she  had  said  enough.  Jed  turned  a  wondering 
face  in  their  direction.  He  stared  without  speaking. 

Mrs.  Armstrong  felt  that  some  one  must  say  something. 

"You  mustn't  mind  what  the  child  says,  Mr.  Winslow," 


ii4  "SHAVINGS" 


she  explained,  hurriedly.  "Of  course  I  realize  perfectly 
that  this  house  is  yours  and  you  certainly  have  the  right  to 
do  what  you  please  with  your  own.  And  I  have  known  all 
the  time  that  we  were  here  merely  on  trial." 

Jed  lifted  a  big  hand. 

"Er — er — just  a  minute,  ma'am,  please,"  he  begged.  "I 
— I  guess  my  wooden  head  is  beginnin'  to  splinter  or  some- 
thin'.  Please  answer  me  just  this — if — if  you'd  just  as 
soon :  Why  are  you  movin'  back  to  Luretta's  ?" 

It  was  her  turn  to  look  wonderingly  at  him.  "Why,  Mr. 
Winslow,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  "isn't  that 
rather  an  unnecessary  question  ?  When  Babbie  and  I  came 
here  it  was  with  the  understanding  that  we  were  to  be  on 
trial  for  a  month.  We  had  gone  into  no  details  at  all,  except 
that  the  rent  for  this  one  month  should  be  forty  dollars. 
You  were,  as  I  understood  it,  to  consider  the  question  of 
our  staying  and,  if  you  liked  us  and  liked  the  idea  of  rent 
ing  the  house  at  all,  you  were  to  come  to  me  and  discuss 
the  matter.  The  month  is  up  and  you  haven't  s?.:d  a  word 
on  the  subject.  And,  knowing  what  your  feelings  had  been, 
I  of  course  realized  that  you  did  not  wish  us  to  remain, 
and  so,  of  course,  we  are  going.  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry. 
Babbie  and  I  love  this  little  house,  and  we  wish  you  might 
have  cared  to  have  us  stay  in  it,  but — 

"Hold  on !  hold  on !"  Jed  was,  for  him,  almost  energetic. 
"Mrs.  Armstrong,  ma'am,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you're 
goin'  back  to  Luretta  Smalley's  because  you  think  /  don't 
want  you  to  stay  ?  Is  that  it,  honest  truth  ?" 

"Why,  of  course,  it  is.     What  else?" 

"And — and  'tain't  because  you  can't  stand  me  any 
longer,  same  as  Mother  used  to  say?" 

"Can't  stand  you ?  Your  mother  used  to  say?  What  do 
you  mean,  Mr.  Winslow?" 

"I  mean — I  mean  you  ain't  goin'  because  I  used  to  wash 


"SHAVINGS"  115 


my  face  out  in  the  yard,  and — and  holler  and  sing  mornin's 
and  look  so  everlastin'  homely — and — and  be  what  every 
body  calls  a  town  crank — and " 

"Mr.  Winslow !     Please!" 

"And — and  you  and  Babbie  would  stay  right  here  if — if 
you  thought  I  wanted  you  to  ?" 

"Why,  of  course.     But  you  don't,  do  you  ?" 

Before  Jed  could  answer  the  outside  door  was  thrown 
open  without  knock  or  preliminary  warning,  and  Captain 
Sam  Hunniwell,  dripping  water  like  a  long-haired  dog  after 
a  bath,  strode  into  the  kitchen. 

"Mornin',  ma'am,"  he  said,  nodding  to  Mrs.  Armstrong. 
Then,  turning  to  the  maker  of  windmills :  "You're  the 
feller  I'm  lookin'  for,"  he  declared.  "Is  what  Philander 
Hardy  told  me  just  now  true?  Is  it?" 

Jed  was  dreamily  staring  out  of  the  window.  He  was 
smiling,  a  seraphic  smile.  Receiving  no  reply,  Captain  Sam 
angrily  repeated  his  question.  "Is  it  true?"  he  demanded. 

"No-o,  no,  I  guess  'tisn't.  I'd  know  better  if  I  knew  what 
he  told  you." 

"He  told  me  that  Mrs.  Armstrong  here  was  movin'  back 
to  Luretta  Smalley's  to-day.  Jed  Winslow,  have  you  been 
big  enough  fcol " 

Jed  heid  up  the  big  hand. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "I  always  am." 

"You  always  are — what?" 

"A  big  enough  fool.     Sam,  what  is  a  lease?" 

"What  is  a  lease  ?" 

"Yes.  Never  mind  tellin'  me;  show  me.  Make  out  a 
lease  of  this  house  to  Mrs.  Armstrong  here." 

Mrs.  Armstrong  was,  naturally,  rather  surprised. 

"Why,  Mr.  Winslow,"  she  cried;  "what  are  you  talking 
about?  Wre  haven't  agreed  upon  rent  or " 


u6  "SHAVINGS" 


"Yes,  we  have.  We've  agreed  about  everything.  Er — 
Babbie,  you  get  your  things  on  and  come  on  over  to  the 
shop.  You  and  I  mustn't  be  sittin'  'round  here  any  longer. 
We've  got  to  get  to  work." 


CHAPTER  VII 

AND  so,  in  as  sudden  a  fashion  as  he  had  granted 
the  "month's  trial,"  did  Jed  grant  the  permanent 
tenure  of  his  property.     The  question  of  rent,  which 
might  easily  have  been,  with  the  ordinary  sort  of  landlord,  a 
rock  in  the  channel,  turned  out  to  be  not  even  a  pebble.- 
Captain  Hunniwell,  who  was  handling  th-e  business  details, 
including   the   making   out   of   the   lease,    was    somewhat 
troubled. 

"But,  Jed,"  he  protested,  "you've  got  to  listen  to  me.  She 
won't  pay  forty  a  month,  although  she  agrees  with  me  that 
for  a  furnished  house  in  a  location  like  this  it's  dirt  cheap. 
Of  course  she's  takin'  it  for  all  the  year,  which  does  make 
consider'ble  difference,  although  from  May  to  October, 
when  the  summer  folks  are  here,  I  could  get  a  hundred  and 
forty  a  month  just  as  easy  as  ...  Eh?  I  believe  you  ain't 
heard  a  word  I've  been  sayin'.  Gracious  king!  If  you 
ain't  enough  to  drive  the  mate  of  a  cattle  boat  into  gettin' 
religion !  Do  you  hear  me  ?  I  say  she  won't  pay " 

Jed,  who  was  sitting  before  the  battered  old  desk  in  the 
corner  of  his  workshop,  did  not  look  around,  but  he  waved 
his  right  hand,  the  fingers  of  which  held  the  stump  of  a 
pencil,  over  his  shoulder. 

"Ssh-h,  sh-h,  Sam !"  he  observed,  mildly.  "Don't  bother 
me  now;  please  don't,  there's  a  good  feller.  I'm  tryin'  to 
work  out  somethin'  important." 

"Well,  this  is  important.  Or,  if  it  ain't,  there's  plenty 
that  is  important  waitin'  for  me  up  at  the  bank.  I'm 
handlin'  this  house  business  as  a  favor  to  you.  If  you 
think  I've  got  nothin'  else  to  do  you're  mistaken." 

117 


u8  "SHAVINGS" 


Jed  nodded,  contritely,  and  turned  to  face  his  friend.  "I 
know  it,  Sam,"  he  said,  "I  know  it.  I  haven't  got  the  least 
mite  of  excuse  for  troublin'  you." 

"You  ain't  troublin'  me — not  that  way.  All  I  want  of 
you  is  to  say  yes  or  no.  I  tell  you  Mrs.  Armstrong  thinks 
she  can't  afford  to  pay  forty  a  month." 

"Yes." 

"And  perhaps  she  can't.  But  you've  got  your  own  in 
terests  to  think  about.  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Yes!    What  in  time  are  you  sayin'  yes  for?" 

"Hum  ?  Eh  ?  Oh,  excuse  me,  Sam ;  I  didn't  mean  yes,  I 
mean  no." 

"Gracious  king!" 

"Well — er — er ,"  desperately,  "you  told  me  to  say  yes 

or  no,  so  I " 

"See  here,  Jed  Winslow,  have  you  heard  what  I've  been 
sayin'?" 

"Why,  no,  Sam ;  honest  I  ain't.  I've  run  across  an  idea 
about  makin'  a  different  kind  of  mill — one  like  a  gull,  you 
know,  that'll  flap  its  wings  up  and  down  when  the  wind 
blows — and — er — I'm  afraid  my  head  is  solid  full  of  that 
and  nothin'  else.  There  generally  ain't  more'n  room  for 
one  idea  in  my  head,"  he  added,  apologetically.  "Some 
times  that  one  gets  kind  of  cramped." 

The  captain  snorted  in  disgust.  Jed  looked  repentant 
and  distressed. 

"I'm  awful  sorry,  Sam,"  he  declared.  "But  if  it's  about 
that  house  of  mine — rent  or  anything,  you  just  do  whatever 
Mrs.  Armstrong  says." 

"Whatever  she  says  ?    Haven't  you  got  anything  to  say  ?" 

"No,  no-o,  I  don't  know's  I  have.  You  see,  I've  settled 
that  she  and  Babbie  are  to  have  the  house  for  as  long  as 
they  want  it,  so  it's  only  fair  to  let  them  settle  the  rest, 


"SHAVINGS"  119 


seems  to  me.  Whatever  Mrs.  Armstrong  wants  to  pay'll  be 
all  right.  You  just  leave  it  to  her." 

Captain  Sam  rose  to  his  feet. 

"I've  a  dum  good  mind  to,"  he  declared  "  'Twould  serve 
you  right  if  she  paid  you  ten  cents  a  year."  Then,  with  a 
glance  of  disgust  at  the  mountain  of  old  letters  and  papers 
piled  upon  the  top  of  the  desk  where  his  friend  was  at 
work,  he  added:  "What  do  you  clean  that  desk  of  yours 
with — a  shovel?" 

The  slow  smile  drifted  across  the  Winslow  face.  "I 
caFlate  that's  what  I  should  have  to  use,  Sam,"  he  drawled, 
"if  I  ever  cleaned  it." 

The  captain  and  the  widow  agreed  upon  thirty-five  dol 
lars  a  month.  It  developed  that  she  owned  their  former 
house  in  Middleford  and  that  the  latter  had  been  rented  for 
a  very  much  higher  rent.  "My  furniture,"  she  added,  "that 
which  I  did  not  sell  when  we  gave  up  housekeeping,  is  stored 
with  a  friend  there.  I  know  it  is  extravagant,  my  hiring  a 
furnished  house,  but  I'm  sure  Mr.  Winslow  wouldn't  let 
this  one  unfurnished  and,  besides,  it  would  be  a  crime  to 
disturb  furniture  and  rooms  which  fit  each  other  as  these 
do.  And,  after  all,  at  the  end  of  a  year  I  may  wish  to  leave 
Or  ham.  Of  course  I  hope  I  shall  not,  but  I  may." 

Captain  Sam  would  have  asked  questions  concerning  her 
life  in  Middleford,  in  fact  he  did  ask  a  few,  but  the  answers 
he  received  were  unsatisfactory.  Mrs.  Armstrong  evidently 
did  not  care  to  talk  on  the  subject.  The  captain  thought 
her  attitude  a  little  odd,  but  decided  that  the  tragedy  of  her 
husband's  death  must  be  the  cause  of  her  reticence.  Her 
parting  remarks  on  this  occasion  furnished  an  explanation. 

"If  you  please,  Captain  Hunniwell,"  she  said,  "I  would 
rather  you  did  not  tell  any  one  about  my  having  lived  in 
Middleford  and  my  affairs  there.  I  have  told  very  few 
people  in  Orham  and  I  think  on  the  whole  it  is  better  not  to. 


120  "SHAVINGS" 


What  is  the  use  of  having  one's  personal  history  discussed 
by  strangers?" 

She  was  evidently  a  trifle  embarrassed  and  confused  as 
she  said  this,  for  she  blushed  just  a  little.  Captain  Sam 
decided  that  the  blush  was  becoming.  Also,  as  he  walked 
back  to  the  bank,  he  reflected  that  Jed  Winslow's  tenant 
was  likely  to  have  her  personal  history  and  affairs  discussed 
whether  she  wished  it  or  not.  Young  women  as  attractive 
as  she  were  bound  to  be  discussed,  especially  in  a  com 
munity  the  size  of  Orham.  And,  besides,  whoever  else  she 
may  have  told,  she  certainly  had  told  him  that  Middleford 
had  formerly  been  -her  home  and  he  had  told  Maud  and 
Jed.  Of  course  they  would  say  nothing  if  he  asked  them, 
but  perhaps  they  had  told  it  already.  And  why  should 
Mrs.  Armstrong  care,  anyway? 

"Let  folks  talk,"  he  said  that  evening,  in  conversation 
with  his  daughter.  "Let  'em  talk,  that's  my  motto.  When 
they're  lyin'  about  me  I  know  they  ain't  lyin'  about  any 
body  else,  that's  some  comfort.  But  women  folks,  I 
cal'late,  feel  different." 

Maud  was  interested  and  a  little  suspicious. 

"You  don't  suppose,  Pa,"  she  said,  "that  this  Mrs.  Arm 
strong  has  a  past,  do  you  ?" 

"A  past?  What  kind  of  a  thing  is  a  past,  for  thunder 
sakes  ?" 

"Why,  I  mean  a — a — well,  has  she  done  something  she 
doesn't  want  other  people  to  know ;  is  she  trying  to  hide 
something,  like — well,  as  people  do  in  stories?" 

"Eh?  Oh,  in  the  books!  I  see.  Well,  young  woman, 
I  cal'late  the  first  thing  for  your  dad  to  do  is  to  find  out 
what  sort  of  books  you  read.  A  past!  Ho,  ho!  I  guess 
likely  Mrs.  Armstrong  is  a  plaguey  sight  more  worried 
about  the  future  than  she  is  about  the  past.  She  has  lived 
the  past  already,  but  she's  got  to  live  the  future  and  pay 


"SHAVINGS"  121 


the  bills  beiongin'  to  it,  and  that's  no  triflin'  job  in  futures 
like  these  days." 

Needless  to  say  Jed  Winslow  did  no  speculating  con 
cerning  his  tenant's  "past."  Having  settled  the  question 
of  that  tenancy  definitely  and,  as  he  figured  it,  forever,  he 
put  the  matter  entirely  out  of  his  mind  and  centered  all 
his  energies  upon  the  new  variety  of  mill,  the  gull  which 
was  to  flap  its  wings  when  the  wind  blew.  Barbara  was, 
of  course,  much  interested  in  the  working  out  of  this  in 
vention,  and  her  questions  were  many.  Occasionally  Mrs. 
Armstrong  came  into  the  shop.  She  and  Jed  became  better 
acquainted. 

The  acquaintanceship  developed.  Jed  formed  a  daily 
habit  of  stopping  at  the  Armstrong  door  to  ask  if  there 
were  any  errands  to  be  done  downtown.  "Coin'  right  along 
down  on  my  own  account,  ma'am,"  was  his  invariable  ex 
cuse.  "Might  just  as  well  run  your  errands  at  the  same 
time."  Also,  whenever  he  chopped  a  supply  of  kindling 
wood  for  his  own  use  he  chopped  as  much  more  and  filled 
the  oilcloth-covered  box  which  stood  by  the  stove  in  the 
Armstrong  kitchen.  He  would  not  come  in  and  sit  down, 
however,  in  spite  of  Barbara's  and  her  mother's  urgent 
invitation ;  he  was  always  too  "busy"  for  that 

But  the  time  came  when  he  did  come  in,  actually  come 
in  and  sit  down  to  a  meal.  Barbara,  of  course,  was  par 
tially  responsible  for  this  amazing  invitation,  but  it  was 
Heman  Taylor's  old  brindle  tomcat  which  really  brought  it 
to  pass.  The  cat  in  question  was  a  disreputable  old 
scalawag,  with  tattered  ears  and  a  scarred  hide,  souvenirs 
of  fights  innumerable,  with  no  beauty  and  less  morals,  and 
named,  with  appropriate  fitness,  "Cherub." 

It  was  a  quarter  to  twelve  on  a  Sunday  morning  and 
Jed  was  preparing  his  dinner.  The  piece  de  resistance  of 
the  dinner  was,  in  this  instance,  to  be  a  mackerel.  Jed  had 


122  "SHAVINGS" 


bought  the  mackerel  of  the  fish  peddler  the  previous  after 
noon  and  it  had  been  reposing  on  a  plate  in  the  little  ancient 
ice-chest  which  stood  by  the  back  door  of  the  Winslow 
kitchen.  Barbara,  just  back  from  Sunday  school  and  ar 
rayed  in  her  best,  saw  that  back  door  open  and  decided  to 
call.  Jed,  as  always,  was  glad  to  see  her. 

"You're  getting  dinner,  aren't  you,  Mr.  Winslow?"  she 
observed. 

Jed  looked  at  her  over  his  spectacles.  "Yes,"  he  an 
swered.  "Unless  somethin'  happens  I'm  gettin'  dinner." 

His  visitor  looked  puzzled. 

"Why,  whatever  happened  you  would  be  getting  dinner 
just  the  same,  wouldn't  you?"  she  said.  "You  might  not 
have  it,  but  you'd  be  getting  it,  you  know." 

Jed  took  the  mackerel  out  of  the  ice-chest  and  put  the 
plate  containing  it  on  the  top  of  the  latter.  "We-ell,"  he 
drawled,  "you  can't  always  tell.  I  might  take  so  long 
gettin'  it  that,  first  thing  I  knew,  'twould  be  supper." 

Humming  a  hymn  he  took  another  dish  from  the  ice- 
chest  and  placed  it  beside  the  mackerel  plate. 

"What's  that  ?"  inquired  Barbara. 

"That?  Oh,  that's  my  toppin'-off  layer.  That's  a  rice 
puddin',  poor  man's  puddin',  some  folks  call  it.  I  cal'late 
your  ma'd  call  it  a  man's  poor  puddin',  but  it  makes  good 
enough  ballast  for  a  craft  like  me."  He  began  singing 
again. 

"  'I  know    not,  yea,  I  know  not 
What  bliss  awaits  me  there. 
Di,  doo  de  di  di  doo  de '" 

Breaking  off  to  suggest :  "Better  stay  and  eat  along  with 
me  to-day,  hadn't  you,  Babbie?" 

Barbara  tried  hard  not  to  seem  superior. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  "but  I  guess  I  can't.     We're  going 


There  was  a  momentary  glimpse  of  a  brindle  cat  with  a 
mackerel  crosswise  in  its  mouth 


"SHAVINGS"  123 


to  have  chicken  and  lemon  jelly."  Then,  remembering  her 
manners,  she  added:  "We'd  be  awful  glad  if  you'd  have 
dinner  with  us,  Mr.  Winslow." 

Jed  shook  his  head. 

"Much  obliged,"  he  drawled,  "but  if  I  didn't  eat  that 
mackerel,  who  would?" 

The  question  was  answered  promptly.  While  Mr. 
Winslow  and  his  small  caller  were  chatting  concerning  the 
former's  dinner,  another  eager  personality  was  taking  a 
marked  interest  in  a  portion  of  that  dinner.  Cherub,  the 
Taylor  cat,  abroad  on  a  foraging  expedition,  had  scented 
from  his  perch  upon  a  nearby  fence  a  delicious  and  appe 
tizing  odor.  Following  his  nose,  literally,  Cherub  de 
scended  from  the  fence  and  advanced,  sniffing  as  he  came. 
The  odor  was  fish,  fresh  fish.  Cherub's  green  eyes  blazed, 
his  advance  became  crafty,  strategical,  determined.  He 
crept  to  the  Winslow  back  step,  he  looked  up  through  the 
open  door,  he  saw  the  mackerel  upon  its  plate  on  the  top  of 
the  ice-chest. 

"If  I  didn't  eat  that  mackerel,"  drawled  Jed,  "who 
would  ?" 

There  was  a  swoop  through  the  air,  a  scream  from  Bar 
bara,  a  crash — two  crashes,  a  momentary  glimpse  of  a 
brindle  cat  with  a  mackerel  crosswise  in  its  mouth  and  the 
ends  dragging  on  the  ground,  a  rattle  of  claws  on  the 
fence.  Then  Jed  and  his  visitor  were  left  to  gaze  upon 
a  broken  plate  on  the  floor,  an  overturned  bowl  on  top  of 
the  ice-chest,  and  a  lumpy  rivulet  of  rice  pudding  trickling 
to  the  floor. 

"Oh !  Oh !  Oh !"  cried  Barbara,  wringing  her  hands  in 
consternation. 

Jed  surveyed  the  ruin  of  the  "poor  man's  pudding"  and 
gazed  thoughtfully  at  the  top  of  the  fence  over  which  the 
marauder  had  disappeared. 


124  "SHAVINGS" 

"Hum,"  he  mused.  "H-u-u-m.  .  .  .  Well,  I  did  cal'late  I 
could  get  a  meal  out  of  sight  pretty  fast  myself,  but — but — 
I  ain't  in  that  critter's  class." 

"But  your  dinner!"  wailed  Barbara,  almost  in  tears. 
"He's  spoiled  all  your  dinner!  Oh,  the  bad  thing!  I  hate 
that  Cherub  cat !  I  hate  him !" 

Mr.  Winslow  rubbed  his  chin.  "We-e-11,"  he  drawled 
again.  "He  does  seem  to  have  done  what  you  might  call 
a  finished  job.  H-u-u-m !  .  .  .  'Another  offensive  on  the — 
er — no'theast'ard  front;  all  objectives  attained.'  That's  the 
way  the  newspapers  tell  such  things  nowadays,  ain't  it? 
.  .  .  However,  there's  no  use  cryin'  over  spilt — er — pud- 
din'.  Lucky  there's  eggs  and  milk  aboard  the  ship.  I 
shan't  starve,  anyhow." 

Barbara  was  aghast.  "Eggs  and  milk!"  she  repeated. 
"Is  that  all  you've  got  for  Sunday  dinner,  Mr.  Winslow? 
Why,  that's  awful!" 

Jed  smikd  and  began  picking  up  the  fragments  of  the 
plate.  He  went  to  the  closet  to  get  a  broom  and  when  he 
came  out  again  the  young  lady  had  vanished. 

But  she  was  back  again  in  a  few  minutes,  her  eyes 
shining. 

"Mr.  Winslow,"  she  said,  "Mamma  sent  me  to  ask  if 
you  could  pkase  come  right  over  to  our  house.  She — 
she  wants  to  see  you." 

Jed  regarded  her  doubtfully.  "Wants  to  see  me?'5  he 
repeated.  "What  for?" 

The  child  shook  her  head;  her  eyes  sparkled  more  than 
ever.  "I'm  not  sure,"  she  said,  "but  I  think  there's  some 
thing  she  wants  you  to  do." 

Wondering  what  the  something  might  be,  Jed  promised 
to  be  over  in  a  minute  or  two.  Barbara  danced  away, 
apparently  much  excited.  Mr.  Winslow,  remembering  that 
it  was  Sunday,  performed  a  hasty  toilet  at  the  sink,  combed 


"SHAVINGS"  125 


his  hair,  put  on  his  coat  and  walked  across  the  yard.  Bar 
bara  met  him  at  the  side  door  of  the  house. 

"Mamma's  in  the  dining-room,"  she  said.  "Come  right 
in,  Mr.  Winslow." 

So  Jed  entered  the  dining-room,  to  find  the  table  set  and 
ready,  with  places  laid  for  three  instead  of  two,  and  Mrs. 
Armstrong  drawing  back  one  of  three  chairs.  He  looked 
at  her. 

"Good  mornin',  ma'am,*'  he  stammered.  "Babbie,  she 
said — er — she  said  there  was  somethin'  you  wanted  me 
to  do." 

The  lady  smiled.  "There  is,"  she  replied.  "Babbie  has 
told  me  what  happened  to  your  dinner,  and  she  and  I  want 
you  to  sit  right  down  and  have  dinner  with  us.  We're 
expecting  you,  everything  is  ready,  and  we  shall — yes,  we 
shall  be  hurt  if  you  don't  stay.  Shan't  we,  Babbie?" 

Barbara  nodded  vigorously.  "Awf'ly,"  she  declared; 
"  'specially  Petunia.  You  will  stay,  won't  you,  Mr.  Win- 
slow — please  ?" 

Poor  Jed!  His  agitation  was  great,  his  embarrassment 
greater  and  his  excuses  for  not  accepting  the  invitation 
numerous  if  not  convincing.  But  at  last  he  yielded  and  sat 
reluctantly  down  to  the  first  meal  he  had  eaten  in  that  house 
for  five  years. 

Mrs.  Armstrong,  realizing  his  embarrassment,  did  not 
urge  him  to  talk  and  Barbara,  although  she  chattered  con 
tinuously,  did  not  seem  to  expect  answers  to  her  questions. 
So  Jed  ate  a  little,  spoke  a  little,  and  thought  a  great  deal. 
And  by  the  time  dinner  was  over  some  of  his  shyness  and 
awkwardness  had  worn  away.  He  insisted  upon  helping 
with  the  dishes  and,  because  she  saw  that  he  would  be  hurt 
if  she  did  not,  his  hostess  permitted  him  to  do  so. 

"You  see,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "I've  been  doin'  dishes  fot 
a  consider'ble  spell,  more  years  than  I  like  to  count.  I  ought 


126  "SHAVINGS" 


to  be  able  to  do  'em  fair  to  middlin'  well.  But,"  he  added, 
as  much  to  himself  as  to  her,  "I  don't  know  as  that's  any 
sign.  There's  so  many  things  I  ought  to  be  able  to  do  like 
other  folks — and  can't.  I'm  afraid  you  may  not  be  satisfied, 
after  all,  ma'am,"  he  went  on.  "I  suppose  you're  a  kind 
of  an  expert,  as  you  might  say." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  fear  I'm  no  expert,  Mr.  Win- 
slow,"  she  answered,  just  a  little  sadly,  so  it  seemed  to  him. 
"Barbara  and  I  are  learning,  that  is  all." 

"Nora  used  to  do  the  dishes  at  home,"  put  in  Barbara. 
"Mamma  hardly  ever " 

"Hush,  dear,"  interrupted  her  mother.  "Mr.  Winslow 
wouldn't  be  interested." 

After  considerable  urging  Jed  consented  to  sit  a  while 
in  the  living-room.  He  was  less  reluctant  to  talk  by  this 
time  and,  the  war  creeping  into  the  conversation,  as  it  does 
into  all  conversations  nowadays,  they  spoke  of  recent  hap 
penings  at  home  and  abroad.  Mrs.  Armstrong  was  sur 
prised  to  find  how  well  informed  her  landlord  was 
concerning  the  world  struggle,  its  causes  and  its  progress. 

"Why,  no,  ma'am,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  a  remark  of 
hers ;  "I  ain't  read  it  up  much,  as  I  know  of,  except  in  the 
newspapers.  I  ain't  an  educated  man.  Maybe — "  with  his 
slow  smile — "maybe  you've  guessed  as  much  as  that 
already." 

"I  know  that  you  have  talked  more  intelligently  on  this 
war  than  any  one  else  I  have  heard  since  I  came  to  this 
town,"  she  declared,  emphatically.  "Even  Captain  Hunni- 
well  has  never,  in  my  hearing,  stated  the  case  against 
Germany  as  clearly  as  you  put  it  just  now ;  and  I  have  heard 
him  talk  a  good  deal." 

Jed  was  evidently  greatly  pleased,  but  he  characteristically 
tried  not  to  show  it.  "Well,  now,  ma'am,"  he  drawled, 
"I'm  afraid  you  ain't  been  to  the  post  office  much  mail  times. 


'SHAVINGS"  127 


If  you'd  just  drop  in  there  some  evenin'  and  hear  Gabe 
Bearse  and  Bluey  Batcheldor  raise  hob  with  the  Kaiser 
you'd  understand  why  the  confidence  of  the  Allies  is  un 
shaken,  as  the  Herald  gave  out  this  mornin'." 

A  little  later  he  said,  reflectively : 

"You  know,  ma'am,  it's  an  astonishin'  thing  to  me,  I 
can't  get  over  it,  my  sittin'  here  in  this  house,  eatin'  with 
you  folks  and  talkin'  with  you  like  this." 

Mrs.  Armstrong  smiled.  "I  can't  see  anything  so  very 
astonishing  about  it,"  she  said. 

"Can't  you?" 

"Certainly  not.  Why  shouldn't  you  do  it — often?  We 
are  landlord  and  tenant,  you  and  I,  but  that  is  no  reason, 
so  far  as  I  can  see,  why  we  shouldn't  be  good  neighbors." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know's  you  quite  understand,  ma'am,"  he  said. 
"It's  your  thinkin'  of  doin'  it,  your  askin'  me  and — and 
wantin'  to  ask  me  that  seems  so  kind  of  odd.  Do  you 
know,"  he  added,  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  "I  don't  suppose 
that,  leavin'  Sam  Hunniwell  out,  another  soul  has  asked 
me  to  eat  at  their  house  for  ten  year.  Course  I'm  far 
frorr  blamin'  'em  for  that,  you  understand,  but " 

"Wait.  Mr.  Winslow,  you  had  tenants  in  this  house 
before?" 

"Yes'm.     Davidson,  their  names  was." 

"And  did  they  never  invite  you  here  ?" 

Jed  looked  at  her,  then  away,  out  of  the  window.  It 
was  a  moment  or  two  before  he  answered.  Then 

"Mrs.  Armstrong,"  he  said,  "you  knew,  I  cal'late,  that 
I  was — er — kind  of  prejudiced  against  rentin'  anybody  this 
house  after  the  Davidsons  left?" 

The  lady,  trying  not  to  smile,  nodded. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "I — well,  I  guessed  as  much." 

"Yes'm,  I  was.     They  would  have  took  it  again,   I'm 


128  "SHAVINGS" 


pretty  sartin,  if  I'd  let  'em,  but — but  somehow  I  couldn't  do 
it.  No,  I  couldn't,  and  I  never  meant  anybody  else  should 
be  here.  Seems  funny  to  you,  I  don't  doubt." 

"Why,  no,  it  was  your  property  to  do  what  you  pleased 
with,  and  I  am  sure  you  had  a  reason  for  refusing." 

"Yes'm.  But  I  ain't  ever  told  anybody  what  that  reason 
was.  I've  told  Sam  a  reason,  but  'twan't  the  real  one.  I — 
I  guess  likely  I'll  tell  it  to  you.  I  imagine  'twill  sound 
foolish  enough.  'Twas  just  somethin'  I  heard  Colonel 
Davidson  say,  that's  all." 

He  paused.  Mrs.  Armstrong  did  not  speak.  After  an 
interval  he  continued: 

"  'Twas  one  day  along  the  last  of  the  season.  The 
Davidsons  had  company  and  they'd  been  in  to  see  the  shop 
and  the  mills  and  vanes  and  one  thing  or  'nother.  They 
seemed  nice,  pleasant  enough  folks;  laughed  a  good  deal, 
but  I  didn't  mind  that.  I  walked  out  into  the  yard  along 
with  'em  and  then,  after  I  left  'em,  I  stood  for  a  minute 
on  the  front  step  of  the  shop,  with  the  open  door  between 
me  and  this  house  here.  A  minute  or  so  later  I  heard  'em 
come  into  this  very  room.  They  couldn't  see  me,  'count  of 
the  door,  but  I  could  hear  them,  'count  of  the  windows 
bein'  open.  And  then  .  .  .  Huh  .  .  .  Oh,  well." 

He  sighed  and  lapsed  into  one  of  his  long  fits  of 
abstraction.  At  length  Mrs.  Armstrong  ventured  to  remind 
him. 

"And  then ?"  she  asked. 

"Eh?  Oh,  yes,  ma'am!  Well,  then  I  heard  one  of  the 
comp'ny  say:  'I  don't  wonder  you  enjoy  it  here,  Ed,'  he 
says.  'That  landlord  of  yours  is  worth  all  the  rent  you  pay 
and  more.  'Tain't  everybody  that  has  a  dime  museum 
right  on  the  premises.'  All  hands  laughed  and  then  Colonel 
Davidson  said:  'I  thought  you'd  appreciate  him,'  he  says, 
'We'll  have  another  session  with  him  before  you  leave. 


'SHAVINGS"  129 


Perhaps  we  can  get  him  into  the  house  here  this  evenin'. 
My  wife  is  pretty  good  at  that,  she  jollies  him  along.  Oh, 
he  swallows  it  all ;  the  poor  simpleton  don't  know  when 
he's  bein'  shown  off.'  " 

Mrs.  Armstrong  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"Oh!"  she  cried.     "The  brute!" 

"Yes'm,"  said  Jed,  quietly,  "that  was  what  he  said.  You 
see,"  with  an  apologetic  twitch  of  the  lip,  "it  came  kind 
of  sudden  to  me  and — and  it  hurt.  Fact  is,  I — I  had 
noticed  he  and  his  wife  was — er — well,  nice  and — er — 
folksy,  as  you  might  say,  but  I  never  once  thought  they 
did  it  for  any  reason  but  just  because  they — well,  liked  me, 
maybe.  Course  I'd  ought  to  have  known  better.  Fine 
ladies  and  gentlemen  like  them  don't  take  much  fancy  to 
dime  museum  folks." 

There  was  just  a  trace  of  bitterness  in  his  tone,  the  first 
Mrs.  Armstrong  had  ever  noticed  there.  Involuntarily  she 
leaned  toward  him. 

"Don't,  Mr.  Winslow,"  she  begged.  "Don't  think  of  it 
again.  They  must  have  been  beasts,  those  people,  and  they 
don't  deserve  a  moment's  thought.  And  don't  call  them 
ladies  and  gentlemen.  The  only  gentleman  there  was  your 
self." 

Jed  shook  his  head. 

"If  you  said  that  around  the  village  here,"  he  drawled, 
"somebody  might  be  for  havin'  you  sent  to  the  asylum  up 
to  Taunton.  Course  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  but,  honest, 
you  hadn't  ought  to  take  the  risk." 

Mrs.  Armstrong  smiled  slightly,  but  hers  was  a  forced 
smile.  What  she  had  just  heard,  told  in  her  guest's  quaint 
language  as  a  statement  of  fact  and  so  obviously  with  no 
thought  of  effect,  had  touched  her  more  than  any  plea  for 
sympathy  could  have  done.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  a 
glimpse  into  this  man's  simple,  trusting,  sensitive  soul.  And 


130  "SHAVINGS" 


with  that  glimpse  came  a  new  feeling  toward  him,  a  feeling 
of  pity — yes,  and  more  than  that,  a  feeling  of  genuine 
respect. 

He  sighed  again  and  rose  to  go.  "I  declare,"  he  said, 
apologetically,  "I  don't  know  what  I've  been  botherin'  you 
with  all  this  for.  As  I  said,  I've  never  told  that  yarn  to 
anybody  afore  and  I  never  meant  to  tell  it.  I " 

But  she  interrupted  him.  "Please  don't  apologize,"  she 
said.  "I'm  very  glad  you  told  it  to  me." 

"I  cal'late  you  think  it's  a  queer  reason  for  lettin'  this 
house  stand  empty  all  this  time." 

"No,  I  think  it  was  a  very  good  one,  and  Babbie  and  I  are 
honored  to  know  that  your  estimate  of  us  is  sufficiently 
high  to  overcome  your  prejudice." 

"Well,  ma'am,  I — I  guess  it's  goin'  to  be  all  right.  If 
you  feel  you  can  get  along  with  me  for  a  landlord  I'd  ought 
sartin  to  be  willin'  to  have  you  for  tenants.  Course  I  don't 
blame  the  Davidsons,  in  one  way,  you  understand,  but " 

"I  do.  I  blame  them  in  every  way.  They  must  have 
been  unspeakable.  Mr.  Winslow,  I  hope  you  will  consider 
Babbie  and  me  not  merely  tenants  and  neighbors,  but 
friends — real  friends." 

Jed  did  not  reply  for  at  least  a  minute.  Then  he  said: 
"I'm  afraid  you'll  be  kind  of  lonesome;  my  friends  are  like 
corn  sprouts  in  a  henyard,  few  and  scatterin'." 

"So  much  the  better;  we  shall  feel  that  we  belong  to 
select  company." 

He  did  not  thank  her  nor  answer,  but  walked  slowly  on 
through  the  dining-room  and  kitchen,  where  he  opened  the 
door  and  stepped  out  upon  the  grass.  There  he  stood  for 
a  moment,  gazing  at  the  sky,  alternately  puckering  his  lips 
and  opening  them,  but  without  saying  a  word.  Mrs.  Arm 
strong  and  Barbara,  who  had  followed  him,  watched  these 


"SHAVINGS"  131 


facial  gymnastics,  the  lady  with  astonishment,  her  daughter 
with  expectant  interest. 

"I  know  what  he  is  doing  that  for,  Mamma,"  she 
whispered.  "It's  because  he's  thinking  and  don't  know 
whether  to  whistle  or  not.  When  he  thinks  awful  hard  he's 
almost  sure  to  whistle — or  sing." 

"Hush,  hush,  Babbie.!" 

"Oh,  he  won't  hear  us.  He  hardly  ever  hears  any  one 
when  he's  thinking  like  that.  And  see,  Mamma,  he  is  going 
to  whistle." 

Sure  enough,  their  guest  whistled  a  few  mournful  bars, 
breaking  off  suddenly  to  observe : 

"I  hope  there  wan't  any  bones  in  it." 

"Bones  in  what?  What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Winslow?" 
queried  Mrs.  Armstrong,  who  was  puzzled,  to  say  the  least. 

"Eh  ?  Oh,  I  hope  there  wan't  any  bones  in  that  mackerel 
Heman's  cat  got  away  with.  If  there  was  it  might  choke  or 
somethin'." 

"Good  gracious !  I  shouldn't  worry  over  that  possibility, 
if  I  were  you.  I  should  scarcely  blame  you  for  wishing  it 
might  choke,  after  stealing  your  dinner." 

Mr.  Winslow  shook  his  head.  "That  wouldn't  do," 
solemnly.  "If  it  choked  it  couldn't  ever  steal  another  one." 

"But  you  don't  want  it  to  steal  another  cure,  do  you?" 

"We-11,  if  every  one  it  stole  meant  my  havin'  as  good  an 
afternoon  as  this  one's  been,  I'd " 

He  stopped.     Barbara  ventured  to  spur  him  on. 

"You'd  what?"  she  asked. 

"I'd  give  up  whittlin'  weather  vanes  and  go  mackerel- 
seinin'  for  the  critter's  benefit.  Well — er — good  day, 
ma'am." 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Winslow.  We  shall  expect  you 
again  soon.  You  must  be  neighborly,  for,  remember,  we 
are  friends  now." 


132  "SHAVINGS" 


Jed  was  half  way  across  the  yard,  but  he  stopped  and 
turned. 

"My — my  fronds  generally  call  me  'Je(V  "  he  said.  Then, 
his  face  a  bright  red,  he  hurried  into  the  shop  and  closed 
the  door. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AFTER  this,  having  broken  the  ice,  Jed,  as  Captain 
Sam  Hunniwell  might  have  expressed  it,  "kept  the 
channel  clear."  When  he  stopped  at  the  kitchen 
door  of  his  tenants'  house  he  no  longer  invariably  refused 
to  come  in  and  sit  down.  When  he  inquired  if  Mrs.  Arm 
strong  had  any  errands  to  be  done  he  also  asked  if  there 
were  any  chores  he  might  help  out  with.  When  the  old 
clock — a  geunine  Seth  Willard — on  the  wall  of  the  living- 
room  refused  to  go,  he  came  in,  sat  down,  took  the  re 
fractory  timepiece  in  his  arms  and,  after  an  hour  of  what 
he  called  "putterin'  and  jackleggin',"  hung  it  up  again 
apparently  in  as  good  order  as  ever.  During  the  process 
he  whistled  a  little,  sang  a  hymn  or  two,  and  talked  with 
Barbara,  who  found  the  conversation  a  trifle  unsatisfactory. 

"He  hardly  ever  finished  what  he  was  going  to  say,"  she 
confided  to  her  mother  afterward.  "He'd  start  to  tell  me  a 
story  and  just  as  he  got  to  the  most  interesting  part  some 
thing  about  the  clock  would  seem  to — you  know — trouble 
him  and  he'd  stop  and,  when  he  began  again,  he'd  be  singing 
instead  of  talking.  I  asked  him  what  made  him  do  it  and 
he  said  he  cal'lated  his  works  must  be  loose  and  every  once 
in  a  while  his  speaking  trumpet  fell  down  into  his  music 
•box.  Isn't  he  a  funny  man,  Mamma  ?" 

"He  is  indeed,  Babbie." 

"Yes.  Petunia  and  I  think  he's — he's  perfectly  scru- 
she-aking.  'Twas  awful  nice  of  him  to  fix  our  clock,  wasn't 
it,  Mamma." 

"Yes,  dear." 

133 


134  "SHAVINGS" 


"Yes.  And  I  know  why  he  did  it ;  he  told  me.  'Twas  on 
Petunia's  account.  He  said  not  to  let  her  know  it  but  he'd 
taken  consider'ble  of  a  shine  to  her.  I  think  he's  taken  a 
shine  to  me,  don't  you,  Mamma  ?" 

"I'm  sure  of  it." 

"So  am  I.  And  I  'most  guess  he's  taken  one  to  you, 
too.  Anyhow  he  watches  you  such  a  lot  and  notices  so 
many  things.  He  asked  me  to-day  if  you  had  been  crying. 
I  said  no.  You  hadn't,  had  you,  Mamma  ?" 

Mrs.  Armstrong  evaded  the  question  by  changing  the 
subject.  She  decided  she  must  be  more  careful  in  hiding 
her  feelings  when  her  landlord  was  about.  She  had  had  no 
idea  that  he  could  be  so  observing;  certainly  he  did  not 
look  it. 

But  her  resolution  was  a  little  late.  Jed  had  made  up 
his  mind  that  something  was  troubling  his  fair  tenant. 
Again  and  again,  now  that  he  was  coming  to  know  her 
better  and  better,  he  had  noticed  the  worn,  anxious  look  on 
her  face,  and  once  before  the  day  of  the  clock  repairing 
he  had  seen  her  when  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  been 
crying.  He  did  not  mention  his  observations  or  inferences 
to  any  one,  even  Captain  Sam,  but  he  was  sure  he  was  right. 
Mrs.  Armstrong  was  worried  and  anxious  and  he  did  not 
like  the  idea.  He  wished  he  might  help  her,  but  of  course 
he  could  not.  Another  man,  a  normal  man,  one  not  looked 
upon  by  a  portion  of  the  community  as  "town  crank,"  might 
have  been  able  to  help,  might  have  known  how  to  offer  his 
services  and  perhaps  have  them  accepted,  but  not  he,  not 
Jedidah  Edgar  Wilfred  Winslow.  But  he  wished  he  could. 
She  had  asked  him  to  consider  her  a  real  friend,  and  to 
Jed,  who  had  so  few,  a  friend  was  a  possession  holy  and 
precious. 

Meanwhile  the  war  was  tightening  its  grip  upon  Orham 
as  upon  every  city,  town  and  hamlet  in  the  land.  At  first 


"SHAVINGS"  135 


it  had  been  a  thing  to  read  about  in  the  papers,  to  cheer  for, 
to  keep  the  flags  flying.  But  it  had  been  far  off,  unreal. 
Then  came  the  volunteering,  and  after  that  the  draft,  and 
the  reality  drew  a  little  nearer.  Work  upon  the  aviation 
camp  at  East  Harnis:  had  actually  begun.  The  office 
buildings  were  up  and  the  sheds  for  the  workmen.  They 
were  erecting  frames  for  the  barracks,  so  Gabriel  Bearse 
reported.  The  sight  of  a  uniform  in  Orham  streets  was  no 
longer  such  a  novelty  as  to  bring  the  population,  old  and 
young,  to  doors  and  windows.  Miss  Maud  Hunniwell  laugh 
ingly  confided  to  Jed  that  she  was  beginning  to  have  hopes, 
real  hopes,  of  seeing  genuine  gold  lace  some  day  soon. 

Captain  Sam,  her  father,  was  busy.  Sessions  of  the 
Exemption  Board  were  not  quite  as  frequent  as  at  first,  but 
the  captain  declared  them  frequent  enough.  And  volunteer 
ing  went  on  steadily  here  and  there  among  young  blood 
which,  having  drawn  a  low  number  in  the  draft,  was  too 
impatient  for  active  service  to  wait  its  turn.  Gustavus 
Howes,  bookkeeper  at  the  bank,  was  one  example.  Captain 
Sam  told  Jed  about  it  on  one  of  his  calls. 

"Yep,"  he  said,  "Gus  has  gone,  cleared  out  yesterday 
afternoon.  Coin'  to  one  of  the  trainin'  camps  to  try  to 
learn  to  be  an  officer.  Eh  ?  What  did  I  say  to  him  ?  Why, 
I  couldn't  say  nothin',  could  I,  but  'Hurrah'  and  'God  bless 
you'?  But  it's  leavin'  a  bad  hole  in  the  bank  just  the 
same." 

Jed  asked  if  the  bank  had  any  one  in  view  to  fill  that 
hole.  Captain  Sam  looked  doubtful. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "we've  got  somebody  in  view  that 
would  like  to  try  and  fill  it.  Barzilla  Small  was  in  to  see 
me  yesterday  afternoon  and  he's  sartin  that  his  boy  Luther 
— Lute,  everybody  calls  him — is  just  the  one  for  the  place. 
He's  been  to  work  up  in  Fall  River  in  a  bank,  so  Barzilla 
says ;  that  would  mean  he  must  have  had  some  experience. 


136  "SHAVINGS" 


Whether  he'll  do  or  not  I  don't  know,  but  he's  about  the 
only  candidate  in  sight,  these  war  times.  What  do  you 
think  of  him,  Jed  ?" 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin.  "To  fill  Gus  Howes'  place?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,  of  course.  Didn't  think  I  was  figgerin'  on  makin' 
him  President  of  the  United  States,  did  you?" 

"Hum !  .  .  .  W-e-e-11.  .  .  .  One  time  when  I  was  a  little 
shaver,  Sam,  down  to  the  fishhouse,  I  tried  on  a  pair  of 
Cap'n  Jabe  Kelly's  rubber  boots.  You  remember  Cap'n 
Jabe,  Sam,  of  course.  Do  you  remember  his  feet?" 

The  captain  chuckled.  "My  dad  used  to  say  Jabe's  feet 
reminded  him  of  a  couple  of  chicken-halibut." 

"Um-hm.  .  .  .  Well,  I  tried  on  his  boots  and  started  to 
walk  across  the  wharf  in  'em.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  what  of  it?  Gracious  king!  hurry  up.  What 
happened  ?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  nothin'  much,  only  seemed  to  me  I'd  had 
half  of  my  walk  afore  those  boots  began  to  move." 

Captain  Hunniwell  enjoyed  the  story  hugely.  It  was  not 
until  his  laugh  had  died  away  to  a  chuckle  that  its  applica 
tion  to  the  bank  situation  dawned  upon  him. 

"Umph!"  he  grunted.  "I  see.  You  cal'late  that  Lute 
Small  will  fill  Gus  Howes'  job  about  the  way  you  filled 
those  boots,  eh?  You  may  be  right,  shouldn't  wonder  if 
you  was,  but  we've  got  to  have  somebody  and  we've  got  to 
have  him  now.  So  I  guess  likely  we'll  let  Lute  sign  on 
and  wait  till  later  to  find  out  whether  he's  an  able  seaman 
or  a — a — 

He  hesitated,  groping  for  a  simile.  Mr.  Winslow  sup 
plied  one. 

"Or  a  leak,"  he  suggested. 

"Yes,  that's  it.  Say,  have  you  heard  anything  from 
Leander  Babbitt  lately?" 


"SHAVINGS"  137 


"No,  nothin'  more  than  Gab  Bearse  was  reelin'  off  last 
time  he  was  in  here.  How  is  Phin  Babbitt?  Does  he 
speak  to  you  yet?" 

"Not  a  word.  But  the  looks  he  gives  me  when  we  meet 
would  sour  milk.  He's  dead  sartin  that  I  had  somethin' 
to  do  with  his  boy's  volunteerin'  and  he'll  never  forgive 
me  for  it.  He's  the  best  hand  at  unforgivin'  I  ever  saw. 
IS ,  no !  Wonder  what  he'd  say  if  he  knew  'twas  you,  Jed, 
that  was  really  responsible?" 

Jed  shook  his  head,  but  made  no  reply.  His  friend  was 
at  the  door. 

"Any  money  to  take  to  the  bank?"  he  inquired.  "Oh, 
no,  I  took  what  you  had  yesterday,  didn't  I  ?  Any  errands 
you  want  done  over  to  Harniss?  Maud  and  I  are  goin' 
over  there  in  the  car  this  afternoon." 

Jed  seemed  to  reflect.  "No-o,"  he  said;  "no,  I  guess 
not.  .  .  .  Why,  yes,  I  don't  know  but  there  is,  though.  If 
you  see  one  of  those  things  the  soldiers  put  on  in  the 
trenches  I'd  wish  you'd  buy  it  for  me.  You  know  what  I 
mean — a  gas  mask." 

"A  gas  mask!     Gracious  king!    What  on  earth?" 

Jed  sighed.  "  'Twould  be  consider'ble  protection  when 
Gabe  Bearse  dropped  in  and  started  talkin',"  he  drawled, 
solemnly. 

October  came  in  clear  and  fine  and  on  a  Saturday  in  that 
month  Jed  and  Barbara  went  on  their  long  anticipated  pic 
nic  to  the  aviation  camp  at  East  Harniss.  The  affair  was 
one  which  they  had  planned  together.  Barbara,  having 
heard  much  concerning  aviation  during  her  days  of  play 
ing  and  listening  in  the  windmill  shop,  had  asked  questions. 
She  wished  to  know  what  an  aviation  was.  Jed  had  ex 
plained,  whereupon  his  young  visitor  expressed  a  wish  to 
go  and  see  for  herself.  "Couldn't  you  take  Petunia  and 
me  some  time,  Mr.  Winslow?"  she  asked. 


138  "SHAVINGS" 


"Guess  maybe  so,"  was  the  reply,  "provided  I  don't  for 
get  it,  same  as  you  forget  about  not  callin'  me  Mr.  Win- 
slow." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.  Petunia  ought  to  have  reminded  me. 
Can't  you  take  me  some  time,  Uncle  Jed?" 

He  had  insisted  upon  her  dropping  the  "Mr."  in  ad 
dressing  him.  "Your  ma's  goin'  to  call  me  Jed,"  he  told 
her;  "that  is  to  say,  I  hope  she  is,  and  you  might  jus'  as 
welJ.  I  always  answer  fairly  prompt  whenever  anybody 
says  'Jed/  'cause  I'm  used  to  it.  When  they  say  'Mr.  Win- 
slow'  I  have  to  stop  and  think  a  week  afore  I  remember  who 
they  mean." 

But  Barbara,  having  consulted  her  mother,  refused  to 
address  her  friend  as  "Jed."  "Mamma  says  it  wouldn't 
be  respect — respectaful,"  she  said.  "And  I  don't  think  it 
would  myself.  You  see,  you're  older  than  I  am,"  she 
added. 

Jed  nodded  gravely.  "I  don't  know  but  I  am,  a  little, 
now  you  remind  me  of  it,"  he  admitted.  "Well,  I  tell  you 
—-call  me  'Uncle  Jed.'  That's  got  a  handle  to  it  but  it  ain't 
so  much  like  the  handle  to  an  ice  pitcher  as  Mister  is.  'Un 
cle  Jed'  '11  do,  won't  it  ?" 

Barbara  pondered.  "Why,"  she  said,  doubtfully,  "you 
aren't  my  uncle,  really.  If  you  were  you'd  be  Mamma's 
brother,  like — like  Uncle  Charlie,  you  know." 

It  was  the  second  time  she  had  mentioned  "Uncle  Char 
lie."  Jed  had  never  heard  Mrs.  Armstrong  speak  of  hav 
ing  a  brother,  and  he  wondered  vaguely  why.  However, 
he  did  not  wonder  long  on  this  particular  occasion. 

"Humph !"  he  grunted.  "Well,  let's  see.  I  tell  you: 
I'll  be  your  step-uncle.  That'll  do,  won't  it  ?  You've  heard 
of  step-f athers  ?  Um-hm.  Well,  they  ain't  real  fathers, 
and  a  step-uncle  ain't  a  real  uncle.  Now  you  think  that 
over  and  see  if  that  won't  fix  it  first-rate." 


"SHAVINGS"  139 


The  child  thought  it  over.  "And  shall  I  call  you  'Step- 
Uncle  Jed'  ?"  she  asked. 

"Eh  ?  .  .  .  Um.  .  .  .  No-o,  I  guess  I  wouldn't.  I'm  only 
a  back  step-uncle,  anyway — I  always  come  to  the  back  steps 
of  your  house,  you  know — so  I  wouldn't  say  anything  about 
the  step  part.  You  ask  your  ma  and  see  what  she  says." 

So  Barbara  asked  and  reported  as  follows: 

"She  says  I  may  call  you  'Uncle  Jed'  when  it's  just  you 
and  I  together,"  she  said.  "But  when  other  people  are 
around  she  thinks  'Mr.  Winslow'  would  be  more  respecta- 
ful." 

It  was  settled  on  that  basis. 

"Can't  you  take  me  to  the  aviation  place  sometime,  Un 
cle  Jed?"  asked  Barbara. 

Jed  thought  he  could,  if  he  could  borrow  a  boat  some 
where  and  Mrs.  Armstrong  was  willing  that  Barbara 
should  go  with  him.  Both  permission  and  the  boat  were 
obtained,  the  former  with  little  difficulty,  after  Mrs.  Arm 
strong  had  made  inquiries  concerning  Mr.  Winslow's  skill 
in  handling  a  boat,  the  latter  with  more.  At  last  Captain 
Perez  Ryder,  being  diplomatically  approached,  told  Jed  he 
might  use  his  eighteen  foot  power  dory  for  a  day,  the  only 
cost  being  that  entailed  by  purchase  of  the  necessary  oil 
and  gasoline. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  when  they  started  on  their 
six  mile  sail,  or  "chug,"  as  Jed  called  it.  Mrs.  Armstrong 
had  put  up  a  lunch  for  them,  and  Jed  had  a  bucket  of  clams, 
a  kettle,  a  pail  of  milk,  some  crackers,  onions  and  salt  pork, 
the  ingredients  of  a  possible  chowder. 

"Little  mite  late  for  'longshore  chowder  picnics,  ma'am," 
he  said,  "but  it's  a  westerly  wind  and  I  cal'late  'twill  be 
pretty  balmy  in  the  lee  of  the  pines.  Soon's  it  gets  any 
ways  chilly  we'll  be  startin'  home.  Wish  you  were  goin' 
along,  too." 


140  "SHAVINGS" 


Mrs.  Armstrong  smiled  and  said  she  wished  it  had  been 
possible  for  her  to  go,  but  it  was  not.  She  looked  pale 
that  morning,  so  it  seemed  to  Jed,  and  when  she  smiled  it 
was  with  an  obvious  effort. 

"You're  not  going  without  locking  your  kitchen  door, 
are  you,  Mr.  Jed?"  she  asked. 

Jed  looked  at  her  and  at  the  door. 

"Why,"  he  observed,  "I  ain't  locked  that  door,  have  I! 
I  locked  the  front  one,  the  one  to  the  shop,  though.  Did 
you  see  the  sign  I  tacked  on  the  outside  of  it?" 

"No,  I  didn't." 

"I  didn't  know  but  you  might  have.  I  put  on  it :  'Closed 
for  the  day.  Inquire  at  Abijah  Thompson's.'  You  see," 
he  added,  his  eye  twinkling  ever  so  little,  "  'Bije  Thompson 
lives  in  the  last  house  in  the  village,  two  mile  or  more  over 
to  the  west'ard." 

"He  does!  Then  why  in  the  world  did  you  tell  people 
to  inquire  there?" 

"Oh,  if  I  didn't  they'd  be  botherin'  you,  probably,  and 
I  didn't  want  'em  doin'  that.  If  they  want  me  enough  to 
travel  way  over  to  'Bije's  they'll  come  back  here  to-morrow, 
I  shouldn't  wonder.  I  guess  likely  they'd  have  to;  'Bije 
don't  know  anything  about  me." 

He  rubbed  his  chin  and  then  added: 

"Maybe  'twould  be  a  good  notion  to  lock  that  kitchen 
door." 

They  were  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  bluff.  He  saun 
tered  over  to  the  kitchen,  closed  the  door,  and  then,  open 
ing  the  window  beside  it,  reached  in  through  that  window 
and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  of  the  door.  Leaving  the 
key  in  that  lock  and  the  window  still  open,  he  came  saun 
tering  back  again. 

"There,"  he  drawled,  "I  guess  everything's  safe  enough 
now." 


"SHAVINGS"  141 


Mrs.  Armstrong  regarded  him  in  amused  wonder.  "Do 
you  usually  lock  your  door  on  the  inside  in  that  way?" 
she  asked. 

"Eh  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  yes'm.  If  I  locked  it  on  the  outside  I'd 
have  to  take  the  key  with  me,  and  I'm  such  an  absent- 
minded  dumb-head,  I'd  be  pretty  sure  to  lose  it.  Come 
on,  Babbie.  All  aboard!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  "Araminta,"  which  was  the  name  of  Captain 
Perez's  power  dory — a  name,  so  the  captain  invaria 
bly  explained,  "wished  onto  her"  before  he  bought 
her — chugged  along  steadily  if  not  swiftly.  The  course  was 
always  in  protected  water,  inside  the  outer  beaches  or 
through  the  narrow  channels  between  the  sand  islands,  and 
so  there  were  no  waves  to  contend  with  and  no  danger.  Jed, 
in  the  course  of  his  varied  experience  afloat  and  ashore,  had 
picked  up  a  working  knowledge  of  gasoline  engines  and, 
anyhow,  as  he  informed  his  small  passenger,  the  "Ara- 
minta's"  engine  didn't  need  any  expert  handling.  "She 
runs  just  like  some  folks'  tongues ;  just  get  her  started  and 
she'll  clack  along  all  day,"  he  observed,  adding  philosoph 
ically,  "and  that's  a  good  thing — in  an  engine." 

"I  know  whose  tongue  you're  thinking  about,  Uncle 
Jed,"  declared  Barbara.  "It's  Mr.  Gabe  Bearse's." 

Jed  was  much  amused;  he  actually  laughed  aloud. 
"Gabe  and  this  engine  are  different  in  one  way,  though," 
he  said.  "It's  within  the  bounds  of  human  possibility  to 
stop  this  engine." 

They  threaded  the  last  winding  channel  and  came  out 
into  the  bay.  Across,  on  the  opposite  shore,  the  new  sheds 
and  lumber  piles  of  what  was  to  be  the  aviation  camp 
loomed  raw  and  yellow  in  the  sunlight.  A  brisk  breeze 
ruffled  the  blue  water  and  the  pines  on  the  hilltops  shook 
their  heads  and  shrugged  their  green  shoulders.  The  "Ara 
minta"  chugged  across  the  bay,  rising  and  falling  ever  so 
little  on  the  miniature  rollers. 

142 


"SHAVINGS"  143 


"What  shall  we  do,  Uncle  Jed?"  asked  Barbara.  "Shall 
we  go  to  see  the  camp  or  shall  we  have  our  chowder  and 
luncheon  first  and  then  go?" 

Jed  took  out  his  watch,  shook  it  and  held  it  to  his  ear 
— a  precautionary  process  rendered  necessary  because  of 
his  habit  of  forgetting  to  wind  it — then,  after  a  look  at  the 
dial,  announced  that,  as  it  was  only  half-past  ten,  perhaps 
they  had  better  go  to  the  camp  first. 

"You  see,"  he  observed,  "if  we  eat  now  we  shan't  hardly 
know  whether  we're  late  to  breakfast  or  early  to  dinner." 

Barbara  was  surprised. 

"Why,  Uncle  Jed !"  she  exclaimed,  "I  had  breakfast  ever 
so  long  ago !  Didn't  you  ?" 

"I  had  it  about  the  same  time  you  did,  I  cal'late.  But  my 
appetite's  older  than  yours  and  it  don't  take  so  much  exer 
cise;  I  guess  that's  the  difference.  We'll  eat  pretty  soon. 
Let's  go  and  look  the  place  over  first." 

They  landed  in  a  little  cove  on  the  beach  adjoining  the 
Government  reservation.  Jed  declared  it  a  good  place  to 
make  a  fire,  as  it  was  sheltered  from  the  wind.  He  an 
chored  the  boat  at  the  edge  of  the  channel  and  then,  pull 
ing  up  the  tops  of  his  long-legged  rubber  boots,  carried 
his  passenger  ashore.  Another  trip  or  two  landed  the  ket 
tle,  the  materials  for  the  chowder  and  the  lunch  baskets. 
Jed  looked  at  the  heap  on  the  beach  and  then  off  at  the 
boat. 

"Now,"  he  said,  slowly,  "the  question  is  what  have  I  left 
aboard  that  I  ought  to  have  fetched  ashore  and  what  have 
I  fetched  here  that  ought  to  be  left  there?  .  .  .  Hum.  .  .  . 
I  wonder." 

"What  makes  you  think  you've  'done  anything  like  that, 
Uncle  Jed?"  asked  Barbara. 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  think  it,  I  know  it.  I've  boarded 
with  myself  for  forty-five  year  and  I  know  if  there's  any- 


144  "SHAVINGS" 


thing  I  can  get  cross-eyed  I'll  do  it.  Just  as  likely  as  not 
I've  made  the  bucket  of  clams  fast  to  that  rope  out  yonder 
and  hove  it  overboard,  and  pretty  soon  you'll  see  me  tryin' 
to  make  chowder  out  of  the  anchor.  .  .  .  Ah  hum.  .  .  . 
well.  .  .  . 

'As  numberless  as  the  sands  on  the  seashore, 

As  numberless  as  the  sands  on  the  shore, 
Oh,  what  a  sight  'twill  be,  when  the  ransomed  host  we  see, 

As  numberless  as ' 

Well,  what  do  you  say?  Shall  we  heave  ahead  for  the 
place  where  Uncle  Sam's  birds  are  goin'  to  nest — his  two- 
legged  birds,  I  mean?" 

They  walked  up  the  beach  a  little  way,  then  turned  in 
land,  climbed  a  dune  covered  with  beachgrass  and  emerged 
upon  the  flat  meadows  which  would  soon  be  the  flying  field. 
They  walked  about  among  the  sheds,  the  frames  of  the 
barracks,  and  inspected  the  office  building  from  outside. 
There  were  gangs  of  workmen,  carpenters,  plumbers  and 
shovelers,  but  almost  no  uniforms.  Barbara  was  disap 
pointed. 

"But  there  are  soldiers  here,"  she  declared.  "Mamma 
said  there  were,  officer  soldiers,  you  know." 

"I  cal'late  there  ain't  very  many  yet,"  explained  her 
companion.  "Only  the  fevr  that's  in  charge,  I  guess  likely. 
By  and  by  there'll  be  enough,  officers  and  men  both,  but 
now  there's  only  carpenters  and  such." 

"But  there  are  some  officer  ones "  insisted  Babbie. 

"I  wonder —  Oh,  see,  Uncle  Jed,  through  that  window — 
see,  aren't  those  soldiers  ?  They've  got  on  soldier  clothes." 

Jed  presumed  likely  that  they  were.  Barbara  nodded, 
sagely.  "And  they're  officers,  too,"  she  said,  "I'm  sure 
they  are  because  they're  in  the  office.  Do  they  call  them 
officers  because  they  work  in  offices,  Uncle  Jed?" 


"SHAVINGS"  145 


After  an  hour's  walking  about  they  went  back  to  the 
place  where  they  had  left  the  boat  and  Jed  set  about  mak 
ing  the  chowder.  Barbara  watched  him  build  the  fire  and 
open  the  clams,  but  then,  growing  tired  of  sitting  still,  she 
was  seized  with  an  idea. 

"Uncle  Jed,"  she  asked,  "can't  you  whittle  me  a  shingle 
boat  ?  You  know  you  did  once  at  our  beach  at  home.  And 
there's  the  cunningest  little  pond  to  sail  it  on.  Mamma 
would  let  me  sail  it  there,  I  know,  'cause  it  isn't  a  bit  deep. 
You  come  and  see,  Uncle  Jed." 

The  "pond"  was  a  puddle,  perhaps  twenty  feet  across, 
left  by  the  outgoing  tide.  Its  greatest  depth  was  not  more 
than  a  foot.  Jed  absent-mindedly  declared  the  pond  to  be 
safe  enough  but  that  he  could  not  make  a  shingle  boat,  not 
having  the  necessary  shingle. 

"Would  you  if  you  had  one?"  persisted  the  young  lady. 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  sartin,  I  guess  so." 

"All  right.  Here  is  one.  I  picked  it  up  on  top  of  that 
little  hill.  I  guess  it  blew  there.  It's  blowing  ever  so 
much  harder  up  there  than  it  is  here  on  the  beach." 

The  shingle  boat  being  hurriedly  made,  its  owner  begged 
for  a  paper  sail.  "The  other  one  you  made  me  had  a  paper 
sail,  Uncle  Jed." 

Jed  pleaded  that  he  had  no  paper.  "There's  some 
wrapped  'round  the  lunch,"  he  said,  "but  it's  all  butter  and 
such.  'T wouldn't  be  any  good  for  a  sail.  Er — er — don't 
you  think  we'd  better  put  off  makin'  the  sail  till  we  get  home 
or — or  somewheres?  This  chowder  is  sort  of  on  my  con 
science  this  minute." 

Babbie  evidently  did  not  think  so.  She  went  away  on  an 
exploring  expedition.  In  a  few  minutes  she  returned,  a 
sheet  of  paper  in  her  hand. 

"It  was  blowing  around  just  where  I  found  the  shingle," 


146  "SHAVINGS" 


she  declared.  "It's  a  real  nice  place  to  find  things,  up  on 
that  hill  place,  Uncle  Jed." 

Jed  took  the  paper,  looked  at  it  absently — he  had  taken 
off  his  coat  during  the  fire-building  and  his  glasses  were 
presumably  in  the  coat  pocket — and  then  hastily  doubled  it 
across,  thrust  the  mast  of  the  "shingle  boat"  through  it  at 
top  and  bottom,  and  handed  the  craft  to  his  small  compan 
ion. 

"There!"  he  observed;  "there  she  is,  launched,  rigged 
and  all  but  christened.  Call  her  the — the  'Geranium' — the 
'Sunflower' — what's  the  name  of  that  doll  baby  of  yours? 
Oh,  yes,  the  'Petunia.'  Call  her  that  and  set  her  afloat." 

But  Barbara  shook  her  head. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "if  you  don't  mind,  Uncle  Jed,  I 
shall  call  this  one  'Ruth,'  that's  Mamma's  name,  you  know. 
The  other  one  you  made  me  was  named  for  Petunia,  and 
we  wouldn't  want  to  name  'em  all  for  her.  It  might  make 

her  too — too Oh,  what  are  those  things  you  make,. 

Uncle  Jed  ?  In  the  shop,  I  mean." 

"Eh?    Windmills?" 

"No.  The  others — those  you  tell  the  wind  with.  I  know 
— vanes.  It  might  make  Petunia  too  vain.  That's  what 
Mamma  said  I  mustn't  be  when  I  had  my  new  coat,  the 
one  with  the  fur,  you  know." 

She  trotted  off.  Jed  busied  himself  with  the  chowder. 
A  few  minutes  later  a  voice  behind  him  said :  "Hi,  there !" 
He  turned  to  see  a  broad-shouldered  stranger,  evidently  a 
carpenter  or  workman  of  some  sort,  standing  at  the  top 
of  the  sand  dune  and  looking  down  at  him  with  marked 
interest. 

"Hi,  there!"  repeated  the  stranger. 

Jed  nodded;  his  attention  was  centered  on  the  chowder. 
"How  d'ye  do?"  he  observed,  politely.  "Nice  day,  ain't 
it?  .  .  Hum.  ,  .  About  five  minutes  more." 


'SHAVINGS"  147 


The  workman  strode  down  the  bank. 

"Say,"  he  demanded,  "have  you  seen  anything  of  a 
plan?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Hum.  .  .  .  Two  plates  and  two  spoons  .  .  . 
and  two  tumblers.  .  .  ." 

"Hey !  Wake  up !  Have  you  seen  anything  of  a  plan, 
I  ask  you  ?" 

"Eh?  ...  A  plan?  .  .  .  No,  I  guess  not.  .  .  .  No,  I 
ain't.  .  .  .  What  is  it?" 

"What  is  it  ?  How  do  you  know  you  ain't  seen  it  if  you 
don't  know  what  it  is?" 

"Eh?  ...  I  don't,  I  guess  likely." 

"Say,  you're  a  queer  duck,  it  strikes  me.  What  are  you 
up  to?  What  are  you  doin'  here,  anyway?" 

Jed  took  the  cover  from  the  kettle  and  stirred  the  fra 
grant,  bubbling  mass  with  a  long-handled  spoon. 

"About  done,"  he  mused,  slowly.  "Just  .  .  .  about  .  .  . 
done.  Give  her  two  minutes  more  for  luck  and  then  .  .  ." 

But  his  visitor  was  becoming  impatient.  "Are  you  deaf 
or  are  you  tryin'  to  get  my  goat  ?"  he  demanded.  "Because 
if  you  are  you're  pretty  close  to  doin'  it,  I'll  tell  you  that. 
You  answer  when  I  speak  to  you ;  understand  ?  What  are 
you  doin'  here?" 

His  tone  was  so  loud  and  emphatic  that  even  Mr.  Win- 
slow  could  not  help  but  hear  and  understand.  He  looked 
up,  vaguely  troubled. 

"I — I  hope  you'll  excuse  me,  Mister,"  he  stammered. 
"I'm  afraid  I  haven't  been  payin'  attention  the  way  I'd 
ought  to.  You  see,  I'm  makin'  a  chowder  here  and  it's 
just  about  got  to  the  place  where  you  can't " 

"Look  here,  you,"  began  his  questioner,  but  he  was  in 
terrupted  in  his  turn.  Over  the  edge  of  the  bank  came  a 
young  man  in  the  khaki  uniform  of  the  United  States  Army. 
He  was  an  officer,  a  second  lieutenant,  and  a  very  young 


148  "SHAVINGS" 


and  very  new  second  lieutenant  at  that.  His  face  was 
white  and  he  seemed  much  agitated. 

"What's  the  matter  here?"  he  demanded.  Then,  seeing 
Jed  for  the  first  time,  he  asked:  "Who  is  this  man  and 
what  is  he  doing  here?" 

"That's  just  what  I  was  askin'  him,  sir,"  blustered  the 
workman.  "I  found  him  here  with  this  fire  goin'  and  I 
asked  him  who  he  was  and  what  he  was  doin'.  I  asked 
him  first  if  he'd  seen  the  plan — 

"Had  he?"  broke  in  the  young  officer,  eagerly.  Then, 
addressing  Jed,  he  said:  "Have  you  seen  anything  of  the 
plan?" 

Jed  slowly  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know's  I  know 
what  you  mean  by  a  plan,"  he  explained.  "I  ain't  been 
here  very  long.  I  just My  soul  and  body!" 

He  snatched  the  kettle  from  the  fire,  took  off  the  cover, 
sniffed  anxiously,  and  then  added,  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
"Whew!  I  declare  I  thought  I  smelt  it  burnin'.  Saved  it 
just  in  time.  Whew!" 

The  lieutenant  looked  at  Jed  and  then  at  the  workman. 
The  latter  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  ask  me,  sir,"  he  said.  "That's  the  way  he's  been 
actin'  ever  since  I  struck  here.  Either  he's  batty  or  else 
he's  pretendin'  to  be,  one  or  the  other.  Look  here,  Rube !" 
he  roared  at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  "can  the  cheap  talk  and 
answer  the  lieutenant's  questions  or  you'll  get  into  trouble. 
D'ye  hear?" 

Jed  looked  up  at  him.  "I'm  pretty  nigh  sure  I  should 
hear  if  you  whispered  a  little  louder,"  he  said,  gently. 

The  young  officer  drew  himself  up.  'That's  enough  of 
this,"  he  ordered.  "A  plan  has  been  lost  here  on  this  res 
ervation,  a  valuable  plan,  a  drawing  of — well,  a  drawing 
that  has  to  do  with  the  laying  out  of  this  camp  and  which 
might  be  of  value  to  the  enemy  if  he  could  get  it.  It  was 


"SHAVINGS"  149 


on  my  table  in  the  office  less  than  an  hour  ago.  Now  it  is 
missing.  What  we  are  asking  you  is  whether  or  not  you 
have  seen  anything  of  it.  Have  you?" 

Jed  shook  his  head.     "I  don't  think  I  have,"  he  replied. 

"You  don't  think?  Don't  you  know?  What  is  the  matter 
with  you?  Is  it  impossible  for  you  to  answer  yes  or  no 
to  a  question?" 

"Urn — why,  yes,  I  cal'late  'tis — to  some  questions. 

"Well,  by  George!     You're  fresh  enough." 

"Now — now,  if  you  please,  I  wasn't  intendin'  to  be  fresh. 
I  just " 

"Well,  you  are.  Who  is  this  fellow?  How  does  he  hap 
pen  to  be  here?  Does  any  one  know?" 

Jed's  first  interrogator,  the  big  workman,  being  the  only 
one  present  beside  the  speaker  and  the  object  of  the  ques 
tion,  took  it  upon  himself  to  answer. 

"I  don't  know  who  he  is,"  he  said.  "And  he  won't  tell 
why  he's  here.  Looks  mighty  suspicious  to  me.  Shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  was  a  German  spy.  They're  all  around 
everywheres,  so  the  papers  say." 

This  speech  had  a  curious  effect.  The  stoop  in  the  Win- 
slow  shoulders  disappeared.  Jed's  tall  form  straightened. 
When  he  spoke  it  was  in  a  tone  even  more  quiet  and  de 
liberate  than  usual,  but  there  could  be  no  shadow  of  a  doubt 
that  he  meant  what  he  said. 

"Excuse  me,  Mister,"  he  drawled,  "but  there's  one  or  two 
names  that  just  now  I  can't  allow  anybody  to  call  me. 
'German'  is  one  and  'spy'  is  another.  And  you  put  'em 
both  together.  I  guess  likely  you  was  only  foolin',  wasn't 
you?" 

The  workman  looked  surprised.  Then  he  laughed. 
"Shall  I  call  a  guard,  sir?"  he  asked,  addressing  the  lieu 
tenant.  "Better  have  him  searched,  I  should  say.  Nine 
chances  to  one  he's  got  the  plan  in  his  pocket." 


ISO  "SHAVINGS" 


The  officer — he  was  very  young — hesitated.  Jed,  who 
had  not  taken  his  eyes  from  the  face  of  the  man  who  had 
called  him  a  German  spy,  spoke  again. 

"You  haven't  answered  me  yet,"  he  drawled.  "You  was 
only  foolin'  when  you  said  that,  wasn't  you?" 

The  lieutenant,  who  may  have  felt  that  he  had  sud 
denly  become  a  negligible  factor  in  the  situation,  essayed 
to  take  command  of  it. 

"Shut  up,"  he  ordered,  addressing  Winslow.  Then  to 
the  other,  "Yes,  call  a  guard.  We'll  see  if  we  can't  get  a 
straight  answer  from  this  fellow.  Hurry  up." 

The  workman  turned  to  obey.  But,  to  his  surprise,  his 
path  was  blocked  by  Jed,  who  quietly  stepped  in  front  of 
him. 

"I  guess  likely,  if  you  wasn't  foolin',  you'd  better  take 
back  what  you  called  me,"  said  Jed. 

They  looked  at  each  other.  The  workman  was  tall  and 
strong,  but  Jed,  now  that  he  was  standing  erect,  was  a 
little  taller.  His  hands,  which  hung  at  his  sides,  were  big 
and  his  arms  long.  And  in  his  mild  blue  eye  there  was  a 
look  of  unshakable  determination.  The  workman  saw 
that  look  and  stood  still. 

"Hurry  up!"  repeated  the  lieutenant. 

Just  how  the  situation  might  have  ended  is  uncertain. 
How 'it  did  end  was  in  an  unexpected  manner.  From  the 
rear  of  the  trio,  from  the  top  of  the  sandy  ridge  separat 
ing  the  beach  from  the  meadow,  a  new  voice  made  itself 
heard. 

"Well,  Rayburn,  what's  the  trouble?"  it  asked. 

The  lieutenant  turned  briskly,  so,  too,  did  Mr.  Winslow 
and  his  vis-a-vis.  Standing  at  the  top  of  the  ridge  was 
another  officer.  He  was  standing  there  looking  down  upon 
them  and,  although  he  was  not  smiling,  Jed  somehow  con 
ceived  the  idea  that  he  was  much  amused  about  something. 


"SHAVINGS"  151 


Now  he  descended  the  ridge  and  walked  toward  the  grorp 
by  the  fire. 

"Well,  Rayburn,  what  is  it  ?"  he  asked  again. 

The  lieutenant  saluted. 

"Why — why,  Major  Grover,"  he  stammered,  "we — that 
is  I  found  this  man  here  on  the  Government  property  and 
— and  he  won't  explain  what  he's  doing  here.  I — I  asked 
him  if  he  had  seen  anything  of  the  plan  and  he  won't  an 
swer.  I  was  just  going  to  put  him  under  arrest  as — as  a 
suspicious  person  when  you  came." 

Major  Grover  turned  and  inspected  Jed,  and  Jed,  for  his 
part,  inspected  the  major.  He  saw  a  well  set-up  man  of 
perhaps  thirty-five,  dark-haired,  brown-eyed  and  with  a 
closely  clipped  mustache  above  a  pleasant  mouth  and  a  firm 
chin.  The  inspection  lasted  a  minute  or  more.  Then  the 
major  said: 

"So  you're  a  suspicious  character,  are  you?" 

Jed's  hand  moved  across  his  chin  in  the  gesture  habitual 
with  him. 

"I  never  knew  it  afore,"  he  drawled.  "A  suspicious 
character  is  an  important  one,  ain't  it?  I — er — I'm  flat 
tered." 

"Humph!     Well,  you  realize  it  now,  I  suppose?" 

"Cal'late  I'll  have  to,  long's  your — er — chummie  there 
says  it's  so." 

The  expression  of  horror  upon  Lieutenant  Rayburn's 
face  at  hearing  himself  referred  to  as  "chummie"  to  his 
superior  officer  was  worth  seeing. 

"Oh,  I  say,  sir!"  he  explained.  The  major  paid  no  at 
tention. 

"What  were  you  and  this  man,"  indicating  the  big  car 
penter,  "bristling  up  to  each  other  for?"  he  inquired. 

"Well,  this  guy  he "  began  the  workman.  Major 

Grover  motioned  him  to  be  quiet. 


152  "SHAVINGS" 


"I  asked  the  other  fellow,"  he  said.  Jed  rubbed  his  chin 
once  more. 

"He  said  I  was  a  German  spy,"  he  replied. 

"Are  you?" 

"No."  The  answer  was  prompt  enough  and  emphatic 
enough.  Major  Grover  tugged  at  the  corner  of  his  mus 
tache. 

"Well,  I — I  admit  you  don't  look  it,"  he  observed,  dryly. 
"What's  your  name  and  who  are  you?" 

Jed  told  his  name,  his  place  of  residence  and  his  busi 
ness. 

"Is  there  any  one  about  here  who  knows  you,  who  could 
prove  you  were  who  you  say  you  are?" 

Mr.  Winslow  considered.  "Ye-es,"  he  drawled.  "Ye-es, 
I  guess  so.  'Thoph  Mullett  and  'Bial  Hardy  and  Georgie 
T.  Nickerson  and  Squealer  Wixon,  they're  all  carpenterin' 
over  here  and  they're  from  Orham  and  know  me.  Then 
there's  Bluey  Batcheldor  and  Emulous  Baker  and  'Gawpy' 
— I  mean  Freddie  G. — and " 

"There,  there!  That's  quite  sufficient,  thank  you.  Do 
you  know  any  of  those  men?"  he  asked,  turning  to  the 
workman. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  guess  I  do." 

"Very  well.  Go  up  and  bring  two  of  them  here;  not 
more  than  two,  understand." 

Jed's  accuser  departed.  Major  Grover  resumed  his 
catechizing. 

"What  were  you  doing  here  ?"  he  asked. 

"Eh?  Me?  Oh,  I  was  just  picnicin',  as  you  might  say, 
along  with'  a  little  girl,  daughter  of  a  neighbor  of  mine. 
She  wanted  to  see  where  the  soldiers  was  goin'  to  fly,  so 
I  borrowed  Perez  Ryder's  power  dory  and  we  came  over. 
'Twas  gettin'  along  dinner  time  and  I  built  a  fire  so  as  to 
cook.  .  .  .  My  soul !"  with  a  gasp  of  consternation,  "I  for- 


'SHAVINGS"  153 


got  all  about  that  chowder.  And  now  it's  got  stone  cold. 
Yes,  sir !"  dropping  on  his  knees  and  removing  the  cover  of 
the  kettle,  "stone  cold  or  next  door  to  it.  Ain't  that  a 
shame!" 

Lieutenant  Rayburn  snorted  in  disgust.  His  superior  of 
ficer,  however,  merely  smiled. 

"Never  mind  the  chowder  just  now,"  he  said.  "So  you 
came  over  here  for  a  picnic,  did  you?  Little  late  for  pic 
nics,  isn't  iti"' 

"Yes — ye-es,"  drawled  Jed,  "  'tis  kind  of  late,  but  'twas 
a  nice,  moderate  day  and  Babbie  she  wanted  to  come, 

"Babbie?  That's  the  little  girl?  .  .  .  Oh,"  with  a  nod, 
"I  remember  now.  I  saw  a  man  with  a  little  girl  wander 
ing  about  among  the  buildings  a  little  while  ago.  Was  that 
you?" 

"Ye-es,  yes,  that  was  me.  .  .  .  Tut,  tut,  tut!  I'll  have 
to  warm  this  chowder  all  up  again  now.  That's  too  bad !" 

Voices  from  behind  the  ridge  announced  the  coming  of 
the  carpenter  and  the  two  "identifiers."  The  latter,  Mr. 
Emulous  Baker  and  Mr.  "Squealer"  Wixon,  were  on  the 
broad  grin. 

"Yup,  that's  him,"  announced  Mr.  Wixon.  "Hello,  Shav- 
in's!  Got  you  took  up  for  a  German  spy,  have  they? 
That's  a  good  one !  Haw,  haw !" 

"Do  you  know  him?"  asked  the  major. 

"Know  him?"  Mr.  Wixon  guffawed  again.  "Known  him 
all  my  life.  He  lives  over  to  Orham.  Makes  windmills 
and  whirlagigs  and  such  for  young-ones  to  play  with.  He 
ain't  any  spy.  His  name's  Jed  Winslow,  but  we  always 
call  him  'Shavin's,'  'count  of  his  whittlin'  up  so  much  good 
wood,  you  understand.  Ain't  that  so,  Shavin's?  Haw, 
haw !" 

Jed  regarded  Mr.  Wixon  mournfully. 


154  "SHAVINGS" 


"Um-hm,"  he  admitted.  "I  guess  likely  you're  right, 
Squealer." 

"/  bet  you!     There's  only  one  Shavin's  in  Orham." 

Jed  sighed.  "There's  consider'ble  many  squealers,"  he 
drawled;  "some  in  sties  and  some  runnin'  loose." 

Major  Grover,  who  had  appeared  to  enjoy  this  dialogue, 
interrupted  it  now. 

"That  would  seem  to  settle  the  spy  question,"  he  said. 
"You  may  go,  all  three  of  you,"  he  added,  turning  to  the 
carpenters.  They  departed,  Jed's  particular  enemy  mut 
tering  to  himself  and  Mr.  Wixon  laughing  uproariously. 
The  major  once  more  addressed  Jed. 

"Where  is  the  little  girl  you  were  with?"  he  asked. 

"Eh?  Oh,  she's  over  yonder  just  'round  the  p'int,  sailin' 
a  shingle  boat  I  made  her.  Shall  I  call  her?" 

"No,  it  isn't  necessary.  Mr.  Winslow,  I'm  sorry  to 
have  put  you  to  all  this  trouble  and  to  have  cooled  your — 
er — chowder.  There  is  no  regulation  against  visitors  to 
our  reservation  here  just  now,  although  there  will  be,  of 
course,  later  on.  There  is  a  rule  against  building  fires  on 
the  beach,  but  you  broke  that  in  ignorance,  I'm  sure.  The 
reason  why  you  have  been  cross-questioned  to-day  is  a 
special  one.  A  construction  plan  has  been  lost,  as  Lieu 
tenant  Rayburn  here  informed  you.  It  was  on  his  desk  in 
the  office  and  it  has  disappeared.  It  may  have  been  stolen, 
of  course,  or,  as  both  windows  were  open,  it  may  have 
blown  away.  You  are  sure  you  haven't  seen  anything  of 
it  ?  Haven't  seen  any  papers  blowing  about  ?" 

"I'm  sure  it  didn't  blow  away,  sir,"  put  in  the  lieutenant. 
"I'm  positive  it  was  stolen.  You  see " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  The  expression  upon 
Jed's  face  caused  him  to  pause.  Mr.  Winslow's  mouth 
and  eyes  were  opening  wider  and  wider. 


"SHAVINGS"  155 


"Sho!"  muttered  Jed.  "Sho,  now!  .  .  .  'Tain't  pos 
sible  that  ...  I  snum  if  ...  Sho !" 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  demanded  both  officers,  practically 
in  concert. 

Jed  did  not  reply.  Instead  he  turned  his  head,  put  both 
hands  to  his  mouth  and  shouted  "Babbie!"  through  them 
at  the  top  of  his  lungs.  The  third  shout  brought  a  faint, 
"Yes,  Uncle  Jed,  I'm  coming." 

"What  are  you  calling  her  for?"  asked  Lieutenant  Ray- 
burn,  forgetting  the  presence  of  his  superior  officer  in  his 
anxious  impatience.  Jed  did  not  answer.  He  was  kneeling 
beside  his  jacket,  which  he  had  thrown  upon  the  sand  when 
he  landed,  and  was  fumbling  in  the  pockets.  "Dear  me! 
dear  me!"  he  was  muttering.  "I'm  sartin  they  must  be 
here.  I  know  I  put  'em  here  because  .  .  .  Ow!" 

He  was  kneeling  and  holding  the  coat  with  one  hand 
while  he  fumbled  in  the  pockets  with  the  other.  Uncon 
sciously  he  had  leaned  backward  until  he  sat  upon  his 
heels.  Now,  with  an  odd  expression  of  mingled  pain  and 
relief,  he  reached  into  the  hip  pocket  of  his  trousers  and 
produced  a  pair  of  spectacles.  He  smiled  his  slow,  fleet 
ing  smile. 

"There  !"  he  observed,  "I  found  'em  my  way — backwards. 
Anybody  else  would  have  found  'em  by  looking  for  'em;  I 
lost  'em  lookin'  for  'em  and  found  'em  by  sittin'  on  'em. 
.  .  .  Oh,  here  you  are,  Babbie !  Sakes  alive,  you're  sort 
of  dampish." 

She  was  all  of  that.  She  had  come  running  in  answer 
to  his  call  and  had  the  shingle  boat  hugged  close  to  her. 
The  water  from  it  had  trickled  down  the  front  of  her 
dress.  Her  shoes  and  stockings  were  splashed  with  wet 
sand. 

"Is  dinner  ready,  Uncle  Jed?"  she  asked,  eagerly.  Then 
becoming  aware  that  tv«».  two  strange  gentlemen  standing 


156  "SHAVINGS" 


by  the  fire  were  really  and  truly  "officer  ones,"  she  looked 
wide-eyed  up  at  them  and  uttered  an  involuntary  "Oh!" 

"babbie,"  said  Jed,  "let  me  see  that  boat  of  yours  a 
minute,  will  you?" 

Babbie  obediently  handed  it  over.  Jed  inspected  it 
through  his  spectacles.  Then  he  pulled  the  paper  sail 
from  the  sharpened  stick — the  mast — unfolded  it,  looked 
at  it,  and  then  extended  it  at  arm's  length  toward  Major 
Grover. 

"That's  your  plan  thing,  ain't  it?"  he  asked,  calmly. 

Both  officers  reached  for  the  paper,  but  the  younger, 
remembering  in  time,  drew  back.  The  other  took  it,  gave  it 
a  quick  glance,  and  then  turned  again  to  Mr.  Winslow. 

"Where  did  you  get  this?"  he  asked,  crisply. 

Jed  shook  his  head. 

"She  gave  it  to  me,  this  little  girl  here,"  he  explained. 
She  wanted  a  sail  for  that  shingle  craft  I  whittled  out  for 
her.  Course  if  I'd  had  on  my  specs  I  presume  likely  I'd 
have  noticed  that  'twas  an  out  of  the  common  sort  of 
paper,  but — I  was  wearin'  'em  in  my  pants  pocket  just 
then." 

"Where  did  you  get  it?"  demanded  Rayburn,  address 
ing  Barbara.  The  child  looked  frightened.  Major  Grover 
smiled  reassuringly  at  her  and  she  stammered  a  rather 
faint  reply. 

"I  found  it  blowing  around  up  on  the  little  hill  there," 
she  said,  pointing.  "It  was  blowing  real  hard  and  I  had 
to  run  to  catch  it  before  it  got  to  the  edge  of  the  water. 
I'm — I — I'm  sorry  I  gave  it  to  Uncle  Jed  for  a  sail.  I 
didn't  know — and — and  he  didn't  either,"  she  added,  loy 
ally. 

"That's  all  right,  my  dear.  Of  course  you  didn't  know. 
Well,  Rayburn,"  turning  to  the  lieutenant,  "there's  your 
plan.  You  see  it  did  blow  away  after  all.  I  think  you 


'SHAVINGS"  157 


owe  this  young  lady  thanks  that  it  is  not  out  in  mid-chan 
nel  by  this  time.  Take  it  back  to  the  office  and  see  if  the 
holes  in  it  have  spoiled  its  usefulness  to  any  extent." 

The  lieutenant,  very  red  in  the  face,  departed,  bearing 
his  precious  plan.  Jed  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"There !"  he  exclaimed,  "now  I  presume  likely  I  can 
attend  to  my  chowder." 

"The  important  things  of  life,  eh?"  queried  Major 
Grover. 

"Um-hm.  I  don't  know's  there's  anything  much  more 
important  than  eatin'.  It's  a  kind  of  expensive  habit,  but  an 
awful  hard  one  to  swear  off  of.  .  .  .  Hum.  .  .  .  Speakin' 
of  important  things,  was  that  plan  of  yours  very  important, 
Mr. — I  mean  Major?" 

"Rather— yes." 

"Sho !  .  .  .  And  I  stuck  it  on  a  stick  and  set  it  afloat  on 
a  shingle.  I  cal'late  if  Sam  Hunniwell  knew  of  that  he'd 
say  'twas  characteristic.  .  .  .  Hum.  .  .  .  Sho!  ...  I  read 
once  about  a  feller  that  found  where  the  great  seal  of 
England  was  hid  and  he  used  it  to  crack  nuts  with.  I 
guess  likely  that  feller  must  have  been  my  great,  great, 
great  granddad." 

Major  Grover  looked  surprised. 

"I've  read  that  story,"  he  said,  "but  I  can't  remember 
where." 

Jed  was  stirring  his  chowder.  "Eh?"  he  said,  absently. 
"Where?  Oh,  'twas  in — the — er — 'Prince  and  the  Pauper/ 
you  know.  Mark  Twain  wrote  it." 

"That's  so;  I  remember  now.  So  you've  read  'The 
Prince  and  the  Pauper'?" 

"Um-hm.  Read  about  everything  Mark  Twain  ever 
wrote,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"Do  you  read  a  good  deal?" 

"Some.  .  .  .  There !    Now  we'll  call  that  chowder  done 


158  "SHAVINGS" 


for  the  second  time,  I  guess.  Set  down  and  pass  your  plate, 
Babbie.  You'll  set  down  and  have  a  bite  with  us,  won't 
you,  Mr. — Major — I  snum  I've  forgot  your  name.  You 
mustn't  mind ;  I  forget  my  own  sometimes." 

"Grover.  I  am  a  major  in  the  Engineers,  stationed  here 
for  the  present  to  look  after  this  construction  work.  No, 
thank  you,  I  should  like  to  stay,  but  I  must  go  back  to  my 
office." 

"Dear,  dear !  That's  too  bad.  Babbie  and  I  would  like 
first-rate  to  have  you  stay.  Wouldn't  we,  Babbie?" 

Barbara  nodded. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  said.  "And  the  chowder  will  be  awf'ly 
good.  Uncle  Jed's  chowders  always  are." 

"I'm  sure  of  it."  Major  Grover's  look  of  surprise  was 
more  evident  than  ever  as  he  gazed  first  at  Barbara  and 
then  at  Mr.  Winslow.  His  next  question  was  addressed  to 
the  latter. 

"So  you  are  this  young  lady's  uncle?"  he  inquired.  It 
was  Barbara  who  answered. 

"Not  my  really  uncle,"  she  announced.  "He's  just  my 
make-believe  uncle.  He  says  he's  my  step-uncle  'cause  he 
comes  to  our  back  steps  so  much.  But  he's  almost  better 
than  a  real  uncle,"  she  declared,  emphatically. 

The  major  laughed  heartily  and  said  he  was  sure  of  it. 
He  seemed  to  find  the  pair  hugely  entertaining. 

"Well,  good-by,"  he  said.  "I  hope  you  and  your  uncle 
will  visit  us  again  soon.  And  I  hope  next  time  no  one  will 
take  him  for  a  spy." 

Jed  looked  mournfully  at  the  fire.  "I've  been  took  for  a 
fool  often  enough,"  he  observed,  "but  a  spy  is  a  consider'ble 
worse  guess." 

Grover  looked  at  him.  "I'm  not  so  sure,"  he  said.  "I 
imagine  both  guesses  would  be  equally  bad.  Well,  good- 
by.  Don't  forget  to  come  again." 


"SHAVINGS"  159 


"Thank  you,  thank  you.  And  when  you're  over  to  Or- 
ham  drop  in  some  day  and  see  Babbie  and  me.  Anybody — 
the  constable  or  anybody — will  tell  you  where  I  live." 

Their  visitor  laughed,  thanked  him,  and  hurried  away. 
Said  Barbara  between  spoonfuls: 

"He's  a  real  nice  officer  one,  isn't  he,  Uncle  Jed  ?  Petunia 
and  I  like  him." 

During  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  they  walked  along 
the  beach,  picked  up  shells,  inspected  "horse-foot"  crabs, 
jelly  fish  and  "sand  collars,"  and  enjoyed  themselves  so 
thoroughly  that  it  was  after  four  when  they  started  for 
home.  The  early  October  dusk  settled  down  as  they  en 
tered  the  winding  channel  between  the  sand  islands  and 
the  stretches  of  beaches.  Barbara,  wrapped  in  an  old  coat 
of  Captain  Perez's,  which,  smelling  strongly  of  fish,  had 
been  found  in  a  locker,  seemed  to  be  thinking  very  hard 
and,  for  a  wonder,  saying  little.  At  last  she  broke  the  si 
lence. 

"That  Mr.  Major  officer  man  was  'stonished  when  I 
called  you  'Uncle  Jed/ "  she  observed.  "Why,  do  you 
s'pose  ?" 

Jed  whistled  a  few  bars  and  peered  over  the  side  at  the 
seaweed  marking  the  border  of  the  narrow,  shallow  chan 
nel. 

"I  cal'late,"  he  drawled,  after  a  moment,  "that  he  hadn't 
noticed  how  much  we  look  alike." 

It  was  Barbara's  turn  to  be  astonished. 

"But  we  don't  look  alike,  Uncle  Jed,"  she  declared.  "Not 
a  single  bit." 

Jed  nodded.  "No-o,"  he  admitted.  "I  presume  that's 
why  he  didn't  notice  it." 

This  explanation,  which  other  people  might  have  found 
somewhat  unsatisfactory,  appeared  to  satisfy  Miss  Arm 
strong  ;  at  any  rate  she  accepted  it  without  comment.  There 


160  "SHAVINGS" 


was  another  pause  in  the  conversation.     Then  she  said : 

"JL  don't  know,  after  all,  as  I  ought  to  call  you  'Uncle  Jed,' 
Uncle  Jed." 

"Eh  ?    Why  not,  for  the  land  sakes  ?" 

"  'Cause  uncles  make  people  cry  in  our  family.  I  heard 
Mamma  crying  last  night,  after  she  thought  I  was  asleep. 
And  I  know  she  was  crying  about  Uncle  Charlie.  She 
cried  when  they  took  him  away,  you  know,  and  now  she 
cries  when  he's  coming  home  again.  She  cried  awf 'ly  when 
they  took  him  away." 

"Oh,  she  did,  eh?" 

"Yes.  He  used  to  live  with  Mamma  and  me  at  our 
house  in  Middleford.  He's  awful  nice,  Uncle  Charlie  is, 
and  Petunia  and  T  were  very  fond  of  him.  And  then  they 
took  him  away  and  we  haven't  seen  him  since." 

"He's  been  sick,  maybe." 

"Perhaps  so.  But  he  must  be  well  again  now  'cause 
he's  coming  home;  Mamma  said  so." 

"Um-hm.  Well,  I  guess  that  was  it.  Probably  he  had 
to  go  to  the — the  hospital  or  somewhere  and  your  ma 
has  been  worried  about  him.  He's  had  an  operation  maybe. 
Lots  of  folks  have  operations  nowadays;  it's  got  to  be  the 
fashion,  seems  so." 

The  child  reflected. 

"Do  they  have  to  have  policemen  come  to  take  you  to  the 
hospital?"  she  asked. 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Policemen?" 

"Yes.  'Twas  two  big  policemen  took  Uncle  Charlie 
away  the  first  time.  We  were  having  supper,  Mamma  and 
he  and  I,  and  Nora  went  to  the  door  when  the  bell  rang 
and  the  big  policemen  came  and  Uncle  Charlie  went  away 
with  them.  And  Mamma  cried  so.  And  she  wouldn't  tell 
me  a  bit  about  ...  Oh !  oh!  I've  told  about  the  police- 


'SHAVINGS"  161 


men !  Mamma  said  I  mustn't  ever,  ever  tell  anybody  that. 
And— and  I  did!  I  did!" 

Aghast  at  her  own  depravity,  she  began  to  sob.  Jed  tried 
to  comfort  her  and  succeeded,  after  a  fashion,  at  least  she 
stopped  crying,  although  she  was  silent  most  of  the  way 
home.  And  Jed  himself  was  silent  also.  He  shared  her 
feeling  of  guilt.  He  felt  that  he  had  been  told  something 
which  neither  he  nor  any  outsider  should  have  heard,  and 
his  sensitive  spirit  found  little  consolation  in  the  fact  that 
the  hearing  of  it  had  come  through  no  fault  of  his.  Be 
sides,  he  was  riot  so  sure  that  he  had  been  faultless.  He 
had  permitted  the  child's  disclosures  to  go  on  when,  per 
haps,  he  should  have  stopped  them.  By  the  time  the  "Ara- 
minta's"  nose  slid  up  on  the  sloping  beach  at  the  foot  of 
the  bluff  before  the  Winslow  place  she  held  two  conscience- 
stricken  culprits  instead  of  one. 

And  if  Ruth  Armstrong  slept  but  little  that  night,  as  her 
daughter  said  had  been  the  case  the  night  before,  she  was 
not  the  only  wakeful  person  in  that  part  of  Orham.  She 
would  have  been  surprised  if  she  had  known  that  her  ec 
centric  neighbor  and  landlord  was  also  lying  awake  and 
that  his  thoughts  were  of  her  and  her  trouble.  For  Jed, 
although  he  had  heard  but  the  barest  fragment  of  the  story 
of  "Uncle  Charlie,"  a  mere  hint  dropped  from  the  lips  of 
a  child  who  did  not  understand  the  meaning  of  what  she 
said,  had  heard  enough  to  make  plain  to  him  that  the  secret 
which  the  young  widow  was  hiding  from  the  world  was  a 
secret  involving  sorrow  and  heartbreak  for  herself  and 
shame  and  disgrace  for  others.  The  details  he  did  not 
know,  nor  did  he  wish  to  know  them;  he  was  entirely  de 
void  of  that  sort  of  curiosity.  Possession  of  the  little 
knowledge  which  had  been  given  him,  or,  rather,  had  been 
thrust  upon  him,  and  which  Gabe  Bearse  would  have  con 
sidered  a  gossip  treasure  trove,  a  promise  of  greater  treas- 


162  "SHAVINGS" 


ures  to  be  diligently  mined,  to  Jed  was  a  miserable,  culpable 
thing,  like  the  custody  of  stolen  property.  He  felt  wicked 
and  mean,  as  if  he  had  been  caught  peeping  under  a  win 
dow  shade. 


CHAPTER  X 

THAT  night  came  a  sudden  shift  in  the  weather  and 
when  morning  broke  the  sky  was  gray  and  over 
cast  and  the  wind  blew  raw  and  penetrating  from 
the  northeast.  Jed,  at  work  in  his  stock  room  sorting  a 
variegated  shipment  of  mills  and  vanes  which  were  to  go 
to  a  winter  resort  on  the  west  coast  of  Florida,  was,  as 
he  might  have  expressed  it,  down  at  the  mouth.  He  still  felt 
the  sense  of  guilt  of  the  night  before,  but  with  it  he  felt  a 
redoubled  realization  of  his  own  incompetence.  When  he 
had  surmised  his  neighbor  and  tenant  to  be  in  trouble 
he  had  felt  a  strong  desire  to  help  her;  now  that  surmise 
had  changed  to  certainty  his  desire  to  help  was  stronger 
than  ever.  He  pitied  her  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart; 
she  seemed  so  alone  in  the  world  and  so  young.  She  needed 
a  sympathetic  counselor  and  advisor.  But  he  could  not 
advise  or  help  because  neither  he  nor  any  one  else  in  Orham 
was  supposed  to  know  of  her  trouble  and  its  nature.  Even 
if  she  knew  that  he  knew,  would  she  accept  the  counsel  of 
Shavings  Winslow  ?  Hardly !  No  sensible  person  would. 
How  the  townsfolk  would  laugh  if  they  knew  he  had  even 
so  much  as  dreamed  of  offering  it. 

He  was  too  downcast  even  to  sing  one  of  his  lugubrious 
hymns  or  to  whistle.  Instead  he  looked  at  the  letter  pinned 
on  a  beam  beside  him  and  dragged  from  the  various  piles 
one  half-dozen  crow  vanes,  one  half-dozen  gull  vanes,  one 
dozen  medium-sized  mills,  one  dozen  small  mills,  three 
sailors,  etc.,  etc.,  as  set  forth  upon  that  order.  One  of 
the  crows  fell  to  the  floor  and  he  accidently  stepped  upon 

163 


164  "SHAVINGS" 


it  and  snapped  its  head  off.  He  was  gazing  solemnly  down 
at  the  wreck  when  the  door  behind  him  opened  and  a  strong 
blast  of  damp,  cold  wind  blew  in.  He  turned  and  found 
that  Mrs.  Armstrong  had  opened  the  door.  She  entered 
and  closed  it  behind  her. 

"Good  morning,"  she  said. 

Jed  was  surprised  to  see  her  at  such  an  early  hour;  also 
just  at  that  time  her  sudden  appearance  was  like  a  sort 
of  miracle,  as  if  the  thoughts  in  his  brain  had  taken  shape, 
had  materialized.  For  a  moment  he  could  not  regain 
presence  of  mind  sufficient  to  return  her  greeting.  Then, 
noticing  the  broken  vane  on  the  floor,  she  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  you  have  had  an  accident.  Isn't  that  too  bad! 
When  did  it  happen?" 

He  looked  down  at  the  decapitated  crow  and  touched 
one  of  the  pieces  with  the  toe  of  his  boot. 

"Just  this  minute,"  he  answered.  "I  stepped  on  it  and 
away  she  went.  Did  a  pretty  neat,  clean  job,  didn't  I? 
.  .  .  Um-hm.  ...  I  wonder  if  anybody  stepped  on  my 
head  'twould  break  like  that.  Probably  not;  the  wood  in 
it  is  too  green,  I  cal'late." 

She  smiled,  but  she  made  no  comment  on  this  character 
istic  bit  of  speculation.  Instead  she  asked :  "Mr.  Winslow, 
are  you  very  busy  this  morning?  Is  your  work  too  im 
portant  to  spare  me  just  a  few  minutes?" 

Jed  looked  surprised;  he  smiled  his  one-sided  smile. 

"No,  ma'am,"  he  drawled.  "I've  been  pretty  busy  but 
'twan't  about  anything  important.  I  presume  likely,"  he 
added,  "there  ain't  anybody  in  Ostable  County  that  can  be 
so  busy  as  I  can  be  doin'  nothin'  important." 

"And  you  can  spare  a  few  minutes?  I — I  want  to  talk 
to  you  very  much.  I  won't  be  long,  really." 

He  regarded  her  intently.  Then  he  walked  toward  the 
door  leading  to  the  little  workroom.  "Come  right  in  here, 


"SHAVINGS"  165 


ma'am,"  he  said,  gravely;  adding,  after  they  had  entered 
the  other  apartment,  "Take  that  chair.  I'll  sit  over  here 
on  the  box." 

He  pulled  forward  the  box  and  turned  to  find  her  still 
standing. 

"Do  sit  down,"  he  urged.  "That  chair  ain't  very  com 
fortable,  I  know.  Perhaps  I'd  better  get  you  another  one 
from  my  sittin'-room  in  yonder." 

He  was  on  his  way  to  carry  out  the  suggestion,  but  she 
interrupted  him.  "Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "This  one  will  be 
perfectly  comfortable,  I'm  sure,  only " 

"Yes?    Is  there  somethin'  the  matter  with  it?" 

"Not  the  matter  with  it,  exactly,  but  it  seems  to  be — 
occupied." 

Jed  stepped  forward  and  peered  over  the  workbench  at 
the  chair.  Its  seat  was  piled  high  with  small  pasteboard 
boxes  containing  hardware — screws,  tacks  and  metal  wash 
ers — which  he  used  in  his  mill  and  vane-making. 

"Sho!"  he  exclaimed.  "Hum!  Does  seem  to  be  taken, 
as  you  say.  I  recollect  now ;  a  lot  of  that  stuff  came  in  by 
express  day  before  yesterday  afternoon  and  I  piled  it  up 
there  while  I  was  unpackin'  it.  Here !"  apparently  ad 
dressing  the  hardware,  "you  get  out  of  that.  That  seat's 
reserved." 

He  stretched  a  long  arm  over  the  workbench,  seized  the 
chair  by  the  back  and  tipped  it  forward.  The  pasteboard 
boxes  went  to  the  floor  in  a  clattering  rush.  One  con 
taining  washers  broke  open  and  the  little  metal  rings  rolled 
everywhere.  Mr.  Winslow  did  not  seem  to  mind. 

"There!"  he  exclaimed,  with  evident  satisfaction;  "sit 
right  down,  ma'am." 

The  lady  sat  as  requested,  her  feet  amid  the  hardware 
boxes  and  her  hands  upon  the  bench  before  her.  She  was 
evidently  very  nervous,  for  her  fingers  gripped  each  other 


166  "SHAVINGS" 


tightly.  And,  when  she  next  spoke,  she  did  not  look  at  her 
companion. 

"Mr.  Winslow,"  she  began,  "I — I  believe — that  is,  Bab 
bie  tells  me  that — that  last  evening,  when  you  and  she  were 
on  your  way  back  here  in  the  boat,  she  said  something — 
she  told  you  something  concerning  our — my — family  af 
fairs  which — which " 

She  faltered,  seeming  to  find  it  hard  to  continue.  Jed 
did  no'  wait.  He  was  by  this  time  at  least  as  nervous 
as  she  was  and  considerably  more  distressed  and  embar 
rassed.  He  rose  from  the  box  and  extended  a  protest 
ing  hand. 

"Now,  now,  ma'am,"  he  begged.  "Now,  Mrs.  Arm 
strong,  please — please  don't  say  any  more.  It  ain't  neces 
sary,  honest  it  ain't.  She — she — that  child  she  didn't  tell 
me  much  of  anything  anyhow,  and  she  didn't  mean  to 
tell  that.  And  if  you  knew  how  ashamed  and — and  mean 
I've  felt  ever  since  to  think  I  let  myself  hear  that  much! 
I  hope — I  do  hope  you  don't  think  I  tried  to  get  her  to 
tell  me  anything.  I  do  hope  you  don't  think  that." 

His  agitation  was  so  acute  and  so  obvious  that  she  looked 
at  him  in  wonder  for  a  moment.  Then  she  hastened  to 
reassure  him. 

"Don't  distress  yourself,  Mr.  Winslow,"  she  said,  smil 
ing  sadly.  "I  haven't  known  you  very  long  but  I  have 
already  learned  enough  about  you  to  know  that  you  are  an 
honorable  man.  If  I  did  not  know  that  I  shouldn't  be 
here  now.  It  is  true  that  I  did  not  mean  for  you  or  any 
one  here  in  Orham  to  learn  of  my — of  our  trouble,  and  if 
Babbie  had  not  told  you  so  much  I  probably  should  never 
have  spoken  to  you  about  it.  The  poor  child's  conscience 
troubled  her  so  last  evening  that  she  came  crying  to  me 
and  confessed,  and  it  is  because  I  gathered  from  her  that 
she  had  told  enough  to  make  you  at  least  guess  the  truth 


"SHAVINGS"  167 


that  I  am  here  now.  I  prefer  that  you  should  hear  the 
story  just  as  it  is  from  me,  rather  than  imagine  something 
which  might  be  worse.  Don't  you  see?" 

Jed  saw,  but  he  was  still  very  much  perturbed. 

"Now,  now,  Mrs.  Armstrong,"  he  begged,  "don't  tell  me 
anything,  please  don't.  I  laid  awake  about  all  night  thinkin' 
what  I'd  ought  to  do,  whether  I'd  ought  to  tell  you  what 
Babbie  said,  or  just  not  trouble  you  at  all  and  try  to  forget 
I  ever  heard  it.  That's  what  I  decided  finally,  to  forget  it ; 
and  I  will — I  vow  and  declare  I  will !  Don't  you  tell  me 
anything,  and  let  me  forget  this.  Now  please." 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "Things  like  that  are  not  so 
easily  forgotten,"  she  said ;  "even  when  one  tries  as  hard 
to  forget  as  I  am  sure  you  would,  Mr.  Winslow.  No,  I 
want  to  tell  you;  I  really  do.  Please  don't  say  any  more. 
Let  me  go  on.  .  .  .  Oh,"  with  a  sudden  burst  of  feeling, 
"can't  you  see  that  I  must  talk  with  some  one — I  must?" 

Her  clasped  fingers  tightened  and  the  tears  sprang  to 
her  eyes.  Poor  Jed's  distress  was  greater  than  ever. 

"Now — now,  Mrs.  Armstrong,"  he  stammered,  "all  I 
meant  to  say  was  that  you  mustn't  feel  you've  got  to  tell 
me.  Course  if  you  want  to,  that's  different  altogether. 
What  I'm  tryin'  to  say,"  he  added,  with  a  desperate  attempt 
to  make  his  meaning  perfectly  clear,  "is  not  to  pay  any  at 
tention  to  me  at  all  but  do  just  what  you  want  to,  that's 
all." 

Even  on  the  verge  of  tears  as  she  was,  she  could  not 
forbear  smiling  a  little  at  this  proclamation  of  complete 
self-effacement.  "I  fear  I  must  pay  some  attention  to 
you,"  she  said,  "if  I  am  to  confide  in  you  and — and  per 
haps  ask  your  help,  your  advice,  afterwards.  I  have 
reached  a  point  when  I  must  ask  some  one's  advice;  I 
have  thought  myself  into  a  maze  and  I  don't  know  what 


168  "SHAVINGS" 


to  do — I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  have  no  near  relatives, 
no  friends  here  in  Orham " 

Jed  held  up  a  protesting  hand. 

"Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Armstrong,"  he  stammered ;  "I  don't 
know  as  you  recollect,  probably  it  might  not  have  meant 
as  much  to  you  as  it  did  to  me;  but  a  spell  ago  you  said 
somethin'  about  countin'  me  as  a  friend." 

"I  know  I  did.  And  I  meant  it.  You  have  been  very 
kind,  and  Barbara  is  so  fond  of  you.  .  .  .  Well,  perhaps 
you  can  advise  me,  at  least  you  can  suggest — or — or — help 
me  to  think.  Will  you?" 

Jed  passed  his  hand  across  his  chin.  It  was  obvious 
that  her  asking  his  counsel  was  simply  a  last  resort,  a 
desperate,  forlorn  hope.  She  had  no  real  confidence  in  his 
ability  to  help.  He  would  have  been  the  last  to  blame 
her  for  this;  her  estimate  of  his  capabilities  was  like  his 
own,  that  was  all. 

"W-e-e-11,"  he  observed,  slowly,  "as  to  givin'  my  advice, 
when  a  man's  asked  to  give  away  somethin'  that's  worth 
nothin'  the  least  he  can  do  is  say  yes  and  try  to  look  gen 
erous,  I  cal'late.  If  I  can  advise  you  any,  why,  I'll  feel 
proud,  of  course." 

"Thank  you.  Mr.  Winslow,  for  the  past  two  years  or 
more  I  have  been  in  great  trouble.  I  have  a  brother — but 
you  knew  that;  Babbie  told  you." 

"Um-hm.    The  one  she  calls  'Uncle  Charlie'  ?" 

"Yes.  He  is — he  is  serving  his  sentence  in  the  Con 
necticut  State  Prison." 

Jed  leaned  back  upon  the  box.  His  head  struck  smartly 
against  the  edge  of  the  bandsaw  bench,  but  he  did  not  seem 
to  be  aware  of  the  fact. 

"My  Lord  above!"  he  gasped. 

"Yes,  it  is  true.  Surely  you  must  have  guessed  some 
thing  of  that  sort,  after  Babbie's  story  of  the  policemea" 


"SHAVINGS"  169 


"I — I — well,  I  did  sort  of — of  presume  likely  he  must 
have  got  into  some  sort  of — of  difficulty,  but  I  never  thought 
'twas  bad  as  that.  .  .  .  Dear  me!  .  .  .  Dear  me!" 

"My  brother  is  younger  than  I ;  he  is  scarcely  twenty- 
three  years  old.  He  and  I  are  orphans.  Our  home  was 
in  Wisconsin.  Father  was  killed  in  a  railway  accident 
and  Mother  and  my  brother  Charles  and  I  were  left  with 
very  little  money.  We  were  in  a  university  town  and 
Mother  took  a  few  students  as  lodgers.  Doctor  Arm 
strong  was  one;  I  met  him  there,  and  before  he  left  the 
medical  college  we  were  engaged  to  be  married.  Charlie 
was  only  a  boy  then,  of  course.  Mother  died  three  years 
later.  Meanwhile  Seymour — Doctor  Armstrong — had  lo 
cated  in  Middleford,  Connecticut,  and  was  practicing  medi 
cine  there.  He  came  on,  we  were  married,  and  I  returned 
to  Middleford  with  him.  We  had  been  married  but  a  few 
years  when  he  died — of  pneumonia.  That  was  the  year 
after  Babbie  was  born.  Charles  remained  in  Wisconsin, 
boarding  with  a  cousin  of  Mother's,  and,  after  he  gradu 
ated  from  high  school,  entered  one  of  the  banks  in  the 
town.  He  was  very  successful  there  and  the  bank  people 
liked  him.  After  Seymour — my  husband — died,  he  came 
East  to  see  me  at  Middleford.  One  of  Doctor  Armstrong's 
patients,  a  bond  broker  in  New  Haven,  took  a  fancy  to 
him,  or  we  thought  he  did,  and  offered  him  a  position.  He 
accepted,  gave  up  his  place  at  the  bank  in  Wisconsin,  and 
took  charge  of  this  man's  Middleford  office,  making  his 
home  with  Babbie  and  me.  He  was  young,  too  young  I 
think  now,  to  have  such  a  responsible  position,  but  every 
one  said  he  had  a  remarkably  keen  business  mind  and  that 

his  future  was  certain  to  be  brilliant.    And  then " 

She  paused.     It  was  evident  that  the  hard  part  of  her 
story  was  coming.    After  a  moment  she  went  on. 

"Charlie  was  popular  with  the  young  people  there  in 


170  "SHAVINGS" 


Middleford.  He  was  always  a  favorite,  at  home,  at  school, 
everywhere.  Mother  idolized  him  while  she  lived,  so  did  I, 
so  did  Babbie.  He  was  fond  of  society  and  the  set  he  was 
friendly  with  was  made  up,  for  the  most  part,  of  older 
men  with  much  more  money  than  he.  He  was  proud,  he 
would  not  accept  favors  without  repaying  them,  he  liked 
a  good  time,  perhaps  he  was  a  little  fast;  not  dissipated — 
I  should  have  known  if  he  were  that — but — careless — and 
what  you  men  call  a  'good  fellow.'  At  any  rate,  he " 

Again  she  paused.  Jed,  sitting  on  the  box,  clasping  his 
knee  between  his  ban  is,  waited  anxiously  for  her  to  con 
tinue. 

"Of  course  you  can  guess  what  happened,"  she  said, 
sadly,  after  a  moment.  "It  was  the  old  story,  that  is  all. 
Charlie  was  living  beyond  his  means,  got  into  debt  and 
speculated  in  stocks,  hoping  to  make  money  enough  to  pay 
those  debts.  The  stocks  went  down  and — and — well,  he 
took  money  belonging  to  his  employer  to  protect  his  pur 
chases." 

She  waited,  perhaps  expecting  her  companion  to  make 
some  comment.  He  did  not  and  again  she  spoke. 

"I  know  he  meant  only  to  borrow  it,"  she  declared.  "I 
know  it.  He  isn't  bad,  Mr.  Winslow;  I  know  him  better 
than  any  one  and  he  isn't  bad.  If  he  had  only  come  to  me 
when  he  got  into  the  trouble!  If  he  had  only  confided  in 
me!  But  he  was  proud  and — and  he  didn't.  .  .  .  Well,  I 
won't  tell  you  how  his — his  fault  was  discovered;  it  would 
take  a  long  time  and  it  isn't  worth  while.  They  arrested 
him,  he  was  tried  and — and  sent  to  prison  for  two  years." 

For  the  first  time  since  she  began  her  story  Jed  uttered 
a  word. 

"Sho !"  he  exclaimed.  "Sho,  sho !  Dear  me !  The  poor 
young  feller!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly.     "Thank  you,"  she  said, 


"SHAVINGS"  171 


gratefully.  "Yes,  he  was  sent  to  prison.  He  was  calm 
and  resigned  and  very  brave  about  it,  but  to  me  it  was  a 
dreadful  shock.  You  see,  he  had  taken  so  little  money, 
not  much  over  two  thousand  dollars.  We  could  have  bor 
rowed  it,  I'm  sure;  he  and  I  could  have  worked  out  the 
debt  together.  We  could  have  done  it ;  I  would  have 
worked  at  anything,  no  matter  how  hard,  rather  than  have 
my  brother  branded  all  his  life  with  the  disgrace  of  having 
been  in  prison.  But  the  man  for  whom  he  had  worked 
was  furiously  angry  at  what  he  called  Charlie's  ingrati 
tude  ;  he  would  teach  the  young  thief  a  lesson,  he  said.  Our. 
lawyer  went  to  him;  I  went  to  him  and  begged  him  not 
to  press  the  case.  Of  course  Charlie  didn't  know  of  my 
going;  he  never  would  have  permitted  it  if  he  had.  But 
I  went  and  begged  and  pleaded.  It  did  no  good.  Why, 
even  the  judge  at  the  trial,  when  he  charged  the  jury, 
spoke  of  the  defendant's  youth  and  previous  good  char 
acter.  .  .  ." 

She  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand.  Poor  Jed's  face 
was  a  picture  of  distress. 

"Now — now,  Mrs.  Armstrong,"  he  urged,  "don't,  please 
don't.  I — I  wouldn't  tell  me  any  more  about  it,  if  I  was 
you.  Of  course  I'm — I'm  proud  to  think  you  believed  I 
was  worth  while  tellin'  it  to  and  all  that,  but — you  mustn't. 
You'll  make  yourself  sick,  you  know.  Just  don't  tell  any 
more,  please." 

She  took  her  hand  away  and  looked  at  him  bravely. 

"There  isn't  any  more  to  tell,"  she  said.  "I  have  told 
you  this  because  I  realized  that  Barbara  had  told  you 
enough  to  make  you  imagine  everything  that  was  bad  con 
cerning  my  brother.  And  he  is  not  bad,  Mr.  Winslow. 
He  did  a  wrong  thing,  but  I  know — I  know  he  did  not 
mean  deliberately  to  steal.  If  that  man  he  worked  for  had 
been — if  he  had  been But  there,  he  was  what  he 


172  "SHAVINGS" 


was.  He  said  thieves  should  be  punished,  and  if  they  were 
punished  when  they  were  young,  so  much  the  better,  be 
cause  it  might  be  a  warning  and  keep  them  honest  as  they 
grew  older.  He  told  me  that,  Mr.  Winslow,  when  I 
pleaded  with  him  not  to  make  Charles'  disgrace  public  and 
not  to  wreck  the  boy's  life.  That  was  what  he  told  me 
then.  And  they  say,"  she  added,  bitterly,  "that  he  prides 
himself  upon  being  a  staunch  supporter  of  the  church." 

Jed  let  go  of  his  knee  with  one  hand  in  order  to  rub  his 
chin. 

"I  have  queer  notions,  I  cal'late,"  he  drawled.  "If  they 
wasn't  queer  they  wouldn't  be  mine,  I  suppose.  If  I  was — - 
er — as  you  might  say,  first  mate  of  all  creation  I'd  put  some 
church  folks  in  jail  and  a  good  many  jail  folks  in  church. 
Seems's  if  the  swap  would  be  a  help  to  both  sides.  .  .  .  I — 
I  hope  you  don't  think  I'm — er — unfeelin',  jokin',  when 
you're  in  such  worry  and  trouble,"  he  added,  anxiously.  "I 
didn't  mean  it." 

His  anxiety  was  wasted.  She  had  heard  neither  his  first 
remark  nor  the  apology  for  it.  Her  thoughts  had  been  far 
from  the  windmill  shop  and  its  proprietor.  Now,  appar 
ently  awakening  to  present  realities,  she  rose  and  turned 
toward  the  door. 

"That  was  all,"  she  said,  wearily.  "You  know  the  whole 
truth  now,  Mr,  Winslow.  Of  course  you  will  not  speak  of 
it  to  any  one  else."  Then,  noticing  the  hurt  look  upon  his 
face,  she  added,  "Forgive  me.  I  know  you  will  not.  If  I 
had  not  known  it  I  should  not  have  confided  in  you.  Thank 
you  for  listening  so  patiently." 

She  was  going,  but  he  touched  her  arm. 

"Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Armstrong,"  he  faltered,  "but — but 
wasn't  there  somethin'  else?  Somethin'  you  wanted  to  ask 
my  advice  about — or — or — somethin'?" 

She   smiled   faintly.     "Yes,   there   was,"   she   admitted 


"SHAVINGS"  173 


"But  I  don't  know  that  it  is  worth  while  troubling  you, 
after  all.  It  is  not  likely  that  you  can  help  me.  I  don't 
see  how  any  one  can." 

"Probably  you're  right.  I — I  ain't  liable  to  be  much  help 
to  anybody.  But  I'm  awful  willin'  to  try.  And  some 
times,  you  know — sometimes  surprisin'  things  happen. 
'Twas  a — a  mouse,  or  a  ground  mole,  wasn't  it,  that  helped 
the  lion  in  the  story  book  out  of  the  scrape  ?  .  .  .  Not  that 
I  don't  look  more  like  a — er — giraffe  than  I  do  like  a 
mouse,"  he  added. 

Mrs.  Armstrong  turned  and  looked  at  him  once  more. 
"You're  very  kind,"  she  said.  "And  I  know  you  mean 
what  you  say.  .  .  .  Why,  yes,  I'll  tell  you  the  rest.  Per 
haps,"  with  the  slight  smile,  "you  can  advise  me,  Mr. 
Winslow.  You  see — well,  you  see,  my  brother  will  be 
freed  very  shortly.  I  have  received  word  that  he  is  to  be 
pardoned,  his  sentence  is  to  be  shortened  because  of  what 
they  call  his  good  conduct.  He  will  be  free — and  then? 
What  shall  he  do  then?  What  shall  we  all  do?  That  is 
my  problem." 

She  went  on  to  explain.  This  was  the  situation:  Her 
own  income  was  barely  sufficient  for  Barbara  and  herself 
to  live,  in  the  frugal  way  they  were  living,  in  a  country 
town  like  Orham.  That  was  why  she  had  decided  to  re 
main  there.  No  one  in  the  village  knew  her  story  or  the 
story  of  her  brother's  disgrace.  But  now,  almost  any  day, 
her  brother  might  be  discharged  from  prison.  He  would 
be  without  employment  and  without  a  home.  She  would 
so  gladly  offer  him  a  home  with  her — they  could  manage 
to  live,  to  exist  in  some  way,  she  said — but  she  knew  he 
would  not  be  content  to  have  her  support  him.  There  was 
no  chance  of  employment  in  Orham;  he  would  therefore 
be  forced  to  go  elsewhere,  to  go  wandering  about  looking 
for  work.  And  that  she  could  not  bear  to  think  of. 


174  "SHAVING'S" 


"You  see,"  she  said,  "I — I  feel  as  if  I  were  the  only 
helper  and — well — guardian  the  poor  boy  has.  I  can  im 
agine,"  smiling  wanly,  "how  he  would  scorn  the  idea  of 
his  needing  a  guardian,  but  I  feel  as  if  it  were  my  duty 
to  be  with  him,  to  stand  by  him  when  every  one  else  has 
deserted  him.  Besides,"  after  an  instant's  hesitation,  "I 
feel — I  suppose  it  is  unreasonable,  but  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
neglected  my  duty  before ;  as  if  perhaps  I  had  not  watched 
him  as  carefully  as  I  should,  or  encouraged  him  to  con 
fide  in  me ;  I  can't  help  feeling  that  perhaps  if  I  had  been 
more  careful  in  this  way  the  dreadful  thing  might  not 
have  happened.  .  .  .  Oh,"  she  added,  turning  away  again, 
"I  don't  know  why  I  am  telling  all  these  things  to  you,  I'm 
sure.  They  can't  interest  you  much,  and  the  telling  isn't 
likely  to  profit  either  of  us  greatly.  But  I  am  so  alone, 
and  I  have  brooded  over  my  troubles  so  much.  As  I  said 
I  have  felt  as  if  I  must  talk  with  some  one.  But  there — 
good  morning,  Mr.  Winslow." 

"Just  a  minute,  please,  Mrs.  Armstrong;  just  a  minute. 
Hasn't  your  brother  got  any  friends  in  Middleford  who 
could  help  him  get  some  work — a  job — you  know  what  I 
mean?  Seems  as  if  he  must  have,  or  you  must  have." 

"Oh,  we  have,  I  suppose.  We  had  some  good  friends 
there,  as  well  as  others  whom  we  thought  were  friends. 
But — but  I  think  we  both  had  rather  die  than  go  back 
there;  I  am  sure  I  should.  Think  what  it  would  mean  to 
both  of  us." 

Jed  understood.  She  might  have  been  surprised  to  real 
ize  how  clearly  he  understood.  She  was  proud,  and  it 
was  plain  to  see  that  she  had  been  very  proud  of  her 
brother.  And  Middleford  had  been  her  home  where  she 
and  her  husband  had  spent  their  few  precious  years  to 
gether,  where  her  child  was  born,  where,  after  her  brother 


'"SHAVINGS"  175 


came,  she  had  watched  his  rise  to  success  and  the  appar 
ent  assurance  of  a  brilliant  future.  She  had  begun  to  be 
happy  once  more.  Then  came  the  crash,  and  shame  and 
disgrace  instead  of  pride  and  confidence.  Jed's  imagina 
tion,  the  imagination  which  was  quite  beyond  the  com 
prehension  of  those  who  called  him  the  town  crank,  grasped 
it  all — or,  at  least,  all  its  essentials.  He  nodded  slowly. 

"I  see,"  he  said.     "Yes,  yes,  I  see.  .  .  .  Plum." 

"Of  course,  any  one  must  see.  And  to  go  away,  to 
some  city  or  town  where  we  are  not  known — where  could 
we  go?  What  should  we  live  on?  And  yet  we  can't  stay 
here ;  there  is  nothing  for  Charles  to  do." 

"Um.  .  .  .  He  was  a — what  did  you  say  his  trade  was?" 

"He  was  a  bond  broker,  a  kind  of  banker." 

"Eh  ?  .  .  .  A  kind  of  banker.  .  .  .  Sho !  Did  he  work  in 
a  bank?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  told  you  he  did,  in  Wisconsin,  where  he  and 
I  used  to  live." 

"Hum.  .  .  .  Pretty  smart  at  it,  too,  seems  to  me  you  said 
he  was?" 

"Yes,  very  capable  indeed." 

"I  want  to  know  .  .  .  Hum.  .  .  .  Sho !" 

He  muttered  one  or  two  more  disjointed  exclamations 
and  then  ceased  to  speak  altogether,  staring  abstractedly  at 
a  crack  in  *he  floor.  All  at  once  he  began  to  hum  a  hymn. 
Mrs.  Armstrong,  whose  nerves  were  close  to  the  breaking 
point,  lost  patience. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Winslow,"  she  said,  and  opened  the 
door  to  the  outer  shop.  This  time  Jed  did  not  detain  her. 
Instead  he  stared  dreamily  at  the  floor,  apparently  quite 
unconscious  of  her  or  his  surroundings. 

"Eh  ?"  he  drawled.  "Oh,  yes,  good  mornin', — good  morn- 
in'.  .  .  Hum.  , 


1 76  "SHAVINGS" 


'There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood 

Drawn   from  Emmanuel's  veins, 
And   sinners  plunged  de  de  de  de 

De  de  di  dew  dum  de.'" 

His  visitor  closed  the  door.    Jed  still  sat  there  gazing  at 
vacancy  and  droning,  dolefully. 


CHAPTER  XI 

FOR  nearly  an  hour  he  sat  there,  scarcely  changing 
his  position,  and  only  varying  his  musical  program 
by  whistling  hymns  instead  of  singing  them.  Once, 
hearing  a  step  in  the  yard,  he  looked  through  the  window 
and  saw  Gabriel  Bearse  walking  toward  the  gate  from 
the  direction  of  the  shop  door  instead  of  in  the  opposite 
direction.  Evidently  he  had  at  first  intended  to  call  and 
then  had  changed  his  mind.  Mr.  Winslow  was  duly  grate 
ful  to  whoever  or  whatever  had  inspired  the  change.  He 
had  no  desire  to  receive  a  visit  from  "Gab"  Bearse,  at 
this  time  least  of  all. 

Later  on  he  heard  another  step,  and,  again  glancing 
through  the  window,  saw  Seth  Wingate,  the  vegetable  and 
fruit  peddler,  walking  from  the  door  to  the  gate,  just  as 
Mr.  Bearse  had  done.  Apparently  Seth  had  changed  his 
mind  also.  Jed  thought  this  rather  odd,  but  again  he  was 
grateful.  He  was  thinking  hard  and  was  quite  willing  not 
to  be  disturbed. 

But  the  disturbing  came  ten  minutes  after  Mr.  Wingate's 
departure  and  came  in  the  nature  of  a  very  distinct  dis 
turbance.  There  was  a  series  of  thunderous  knocks  on 
the  front  door,  that  door  was  thrown  violently  open,  and, 
before  the  startled  maker  of  mills  could  do  much  more 
than  rise  to  his  feet,  the  door  to  the  workroom  was  pulled 
open  also.  Captain  Hunniwell's  bulk  filled  the  opening. 
Captain  Sam  was  red- faced  and  seemed  excited. 

"Well,  by  the  gracious  king,"  he  roared,  "you're  here, 
anyhow !  What  else  is  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

177 


178  "SHAVINGS" 


Jed,  who,  after  recognizing  his  visitor,  had  seated  him 
self  once  more,  looked  up  and  nodded. 

"Hello,  Sam,"  he  observed.  "Say,  I  was  just  thinkin' 
about  you.  That's  kind  of  funny,  ain't  it?" 

"Funny !  Just  thinkin'  about  me !  Well,  I've  been 
thinkin'  about  you,  I  tell  you  that:  Have  you  been  in  this 
shop  all  the  forenoon?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Why,  yes.  .  .  .  Sartin.  .  .  .  I've  been  right 
here." 

"You  have?  Gracious  king!  Then  why  in  the  Old 
Harry  have  you  got  that  sign  nailed  on  your  front  door  out 
here  tellin'  all  hands  you're  out  for  the  day  and  for  'em 
to  ask  for  you  up  at  Abijah  Thompson's?" 

Jed  looked  much  surprised.  His  hand  moved  slowly 
across  his  chin. 

"Sho!"  he  drawled.  "Sho!  Has  that  sign  been  hangin' 
there  all  this  forenoon?" 

"Don't  ask  me.  I  guess  it  has  from  what  I've  heard. 
Anyhow  it's  there  now.  And  what's  it  there  for?  That's 
what  I  want  to  know." 

Jed's  face  was  very  solemn,  but  there  was  a  faint  twinkle 
in  his  eye.  "That  explains  about  Seth  Wingate,"  he  mused. 
"Yes,  and  Gab  Bearse  too.  .  .  .  Hum.  .  .  .  The  Lord  was 
better  to  me  than  I  deserved.  They  say  He  takes  care  of 
children  and  drunken  men  and — er — the  critters  that  most 
folks  think  belong  to  my  lodge.  .  .  .  Hum.  ...  To  think 
I  forgot  to  take  that  sign  down!  Sho!" 

"Forgot  to  take  it  down !  What  in  everlastin'  blazes  did 
you  ever  put  it  up  for?" 

Jed  explained  why  the  placard  had  been  prepared  and 
affixed  to  the  door.  "I  only  meant  it  for  yesterday, 
though,"  he  added.  "I'd  intended  takin'  it  down  this 
morninY' 


"SHAVINGS"  179 


Captain  Sam  put  back  his  head  and  laughed  until  the 
shop  echoed. 

"Ho,  ho,  ho !"  he  roared.  "And  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  you  put  it  up  there  because  you  was  goin'  cruisin'  to 
the  aviation  camp  and  you  didn't  want  callers  disturbin' 
Mrs.  Armstrong?" 

His  friend  nodded.  "Um-hm,"  he  admitted.  "I  sent 
'em  to  'Bije's  because  he  was  as  far  off  as  anybody  I  could 
think  of.  Pretty  good  idea,  wasn't  it  ?" 

The  captain  grinned.  "Great !"  he  declared.  "Fine ! 
Wonderful !  You  wait  till  'Bije  comes  to  tell  you  how  fine 
'twas.  He's  in  bed,  laid  up  with  neuralgia,  and  Emma  ]., 
his  wife,  says  that  every  hour  or  less  yesterday  there  was 
somebody  bangin'  at  their  door  asking  about  you.  Every 
time  they  banged  she  says  that  'Bije,  his  nerves  bein'  on 
edge  the  way  they  are,  would  pretty  nigh  jump  the  quilts 
up  to  the  ceilin'  and  himself  along  with  'em.  And  his  re 
marks  got  more  lit  up  every  jump.  About  five  o'clock 
when  somebody  came  poundin'  he  let  out  a  roar  you  could 
hear  a  mile.  'Tell  'em  Shavin's  Winslow's  gone  to  the  devil,' 
he  bellowed,  'and  that  I  say  they  can  go  there  too.'  And 
then  Emma  J.  opened  the  door  and  'twan't  anybody  askin' 
about  you  at  all;  'twas  the  Baptist  minister  come  callin'. 
I  was  drivin'  past  there  just  now  and  Emma  J.  came  out 
to  tell  me  about  it.  She  wanted  to  know  if  you'd  gone 
clear  crazy  instead  of  part  way.  I  told  her  I  didn't  know, 
but  I'd  make  it  my  business  to  find  out.  Tut,  tut,  tut !  You 
are  a  wonder,  Jed." 

Jed  did  not  dispute  the  truth  of  this  statement.  He 
looked  troubled,  however.  "Sho !"  he  said ;  "I'm  sorry  if 
I  plagued  'Bijah  that  way.  If  I'd  known  he  was  sick  I 
wouldn't  have  done  it.  I  never  once  thought  so  many 
folks  as  one  every  hour  would  want  to  see  me  this  time 


i8o  "SHAVINGS" 


of  year.  Dear  me !  I'm  sorry  about  'Bije.  Maybe  I'd  bet 
ter  go  down  and  kind  of  explain  it  to  him." 

Captain  Sam  chuckled.  "I  wouldn't,"  he  said.  "If  I  was 
you  I'd  explain  over  the  long  distance  telephone.  But, 
anyhow,  I  wouldn't  worry  much.  I  cal'late  Emma  J.  ex 
aggerated  affairs  some.  Probably,  if  the  truth  was  known, 
you'd  rind  not  more  than  four  folks  came  there  lookin' 
for  you  yesterday.  Don't  worry,  Jed." 

Jed  did  not  answer.  The  word  "worry"  had  reminded 
him  of  his  other  visitor  that  morning.  He  looked  so  seri 
ous  that  his  friend  repeated  his  adjuration. 

"Don't  worry,  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  again.  "  'Tisn't 
worth  it." 

"All  right,  I  won't.  ...  I  won't.  .  .  .  Sam,  I  was  think- 
in'  about  you  afore  you  came  in.  You  remember  I  told 
you  that?" 

"I  remember.  What  have  you  got  on  your  mind?  Any 
more  money  kickin'  around  this  glory-hole  that  you  want 
me  to  put  to  your  account?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  I  believe  there  is  some  somewheres. 
Seems  to  me  I  put  about  a  hundred  and  ten  dollars,  checks 
and  bills  and  such,  away  day  before  yesterday  for  you  to 
take  when  you  came.  Maybe  I'll  remember  where  I  put 
it  before  you  go.  But  'twan't  about  that  I  was  thinkin'. 
Sam,  how  is  Barzilla  Small's  boy,  Lute,  gettin'  along  in  Gus 
Howes'  job  at  the  bank?" 

Captain  Sam  snorted  disgust. 

"Gettin'  along!"  he  repeated.  "He's  gettin'  along  the 
way  a  squid  swims,  and  that's  backwards.  And,  if  you 
asked  me,  I'd  say  the  longer  he  stayed  the  further  back 
he'd  get." 

"Sho !  then  he  did  turn  out  to  be  a  leak  instead  of  an  able 
seaman,  eh?" 

"A  leak!     Gracious  king!     He's  like  a  torpedo  blow-up 


'SHAVINGS"  181 


tinder  the  engine-room.  The  bank'll  sink  if  he  stays  aboard 
another  month,  I  do  believe.  And  yet,"  he  added,  with  a 
shake  of  the  head,  "I  don't  see  but  he'll  have  to  stay ;  there 
ain't  another  available  candidate  for  the  job  in  sight.  I 
'phoned  up  to  Boston  and  some  of  our  friends  are  lookin' 
around  up  there,  but  so  far  they  haven't  had  any  suc 
cess.  This  war  is  makin'  young  men  scarce,  that  is  young 
men  that  are  good  for  much.  Pretty  soon  it'll  get  so  that 
a  healthy  young  feller  who  ain't  in  uniform  will  feel  about 
as  much  out  of  place  as  a  hog  in  a  synagogue.  Yes,  sir! 
Ho,  ho!" 

He  laughed  in  huge  enjoyment  of  his  own  joke.  Jed 
stared  dreamily  at  the  adjusting  screw  on  the  handsaw. 
His  hands  clasped  his  knee,  his  foot  was  lifted  from  the 
floor  and  began  to  swing  back  and  fo^th. 

"Well,"  queried  his  friend,  "what  have  you  got  on  your 
mind?  Out  with  it." 

"Eh?  ...  On  my  mind?" 

"Yes.  When  I  see  you  begin  to  shut  yourself  together 
in  the  middle  like  a  jackknife  and  sta^t  swinging  that  num 
ber  eleven  of  yours  I  know  you're  thinkin'  hard  about 
somethin'  or  other.  What  is  it  this  time?" 

"Um  .  .  .  well  ...  er  ...  Sam,  if  you  saw  a  chance 
to  get  a  real  smart  young  feller  in  Lute's  place  in  the  bank 
you'd  take  him,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Would  I  ?  Would  a  cat  eat  lobster  ?  Only  show  him  to 
me,  that's  all!"  v 

"Um-hm.  .  .  .  Now  of  course  you  know  I  wouldn't  do 
anything  to  hurt  Lute.  Not  for  the  world  I  wouldn't.  It's 
only  if  you  are  goin'  to  let  him  go ' 

"//  I  am.  Either  he'll  have  to  let  go  or  the  bank  will, 
one  or  t'other.  United  we  sink,  divided  one  of  us  may 
float,  that's  the  way  I  look  at  it.  Lute'll  stay  till  we  can 
locate  somebody  else  to  take  his  job,  and  no  longer." 


182  "SHAVINGS" 


"Ya-as.  .  .  .  Um-hm.  .  .  .  Well,  I  tell  you,  Sam :  Don't 
you  get  anybody  else  till  you  and  I  have  another  talk.  It 
may  be  possible  that  I  could  find  you  just  the  sort  of  young 
man  you're  lookin'  for." 

"Eh?  You  can  find  me  one?  You  can?  What  are  you 
givin'  me,  Jed  ?  Who  is  the  young  man ;  you  ?" 

Jed  gravely  shook  his  head.  "No-o,"  he  drawled.  "I 
hate  to  disappoint  you,  Sam,  but  it  ain't  me.  It's  another 
• — er — smart,  lively  young  feller.  He  ain't  quite  so  old  as 
I  am;  there's  a  little  matter  of  twenty  odd  years  between 
us,  I  believe,  but  otherwise  than  that  he's  all  right.  And 
he  knows  the  bankin'  trade,  so  I'm  told." 

"Gracious  king!    Who  is  he?    Where  is  he?" 

"That  I  can't  teli  you  just  yet.  But  maybe  I  can  by 
and  by." 

"Tell  me  now." 

"No-o.  No,  I  just  heard  about  him  and  it  was  told  to 
me  in  secret.  All  I  ..n  say  is  don't  get  anybody  to  fill  Lute 
Small's  place  till  you  and  I  have  another  talk." 

Captain  Sam  stared  keenly  into  his  friend's  face.  Jed 
bore  the  scrutiny  calmly;  in  fact  he  didn't  seem  to  be 
aware  of  it.  The  captain  gave  it  up. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "No  use  tryin'  to  pump  you,  I 
know  that.  When  you  make  up  your  mind  to  keep  your 
mouth  shut  a  feller  couldn't  open  it  with  a  cold  chisel. 
I  presume  likely  you'll  tell  in  your  own  good  time.  Now  if 
you'll  scratch  around  and  find  those  checks  and  things 
you  want  me  to  deposit  for  you  I'll  take  'em  and  be  goin'. 
I'm  in  a  little  bit  of  a  hurry  this  mornin'." 

Jed  "scratched  around,"  finally  locating  the  checks  and 
bills  in  the  coffee  pot  on  the  shelf  in  his  little  kitchen. 

"There !"  he  exclaimed,  with  satisfaction,  "I  knew  I  put 
'em  somewheres  where  they'd  be  safe  and  where  I  couldn't 
forget  'em." 


"SHAVINGS"  183 


"Where  you  couldn't  forget  'em!  Why,  you  did  forget 
'em,  didn't  you  ?" 

"Um  .  .  .  yes  ...  I  cal'late  I  did  this  mornin',  but 
that's  because  I  didn't  make  any  coffee  for  breakfast.  If 
I'd  made  coffee  same  as  I  usually  do  I'd  have  found  'em." 

"Why  didn't  you  make  coffee  this  mornin'?" 

Jed's  eye  twinkled. 

"W-e-e-il,"  he  drawled,  "to  be  honest  with  you,  Sam, 
'twas  because  I  couldn't  find  the  coffee  pot.  After  I  took  it 
down  to  put  this  money  in  it  I  put  it  back  on  a  different 
shelf.  I  just  found  it  now  by  accident." 

As  the  captain  was  leaving  Jed  asked  one  more  question. 

"Sam,"  he  asked,  "about  this  bank  job  now?  If  you  had 
a  chance  to  get  a  bright,  smart  young  man  with  experience 
in  bank  work,  you'd  hire  him,  wouldn't  you?" 

Captain  Hunniwell's  answrer  was  emphatic. 

"You  bet  I  would!"  he  declared.  "If  I  liked  his  looks 
and  his  references  were  good  I'd  hire  him  in  two  minutes. 
And  salary,  any  reasonable  salary,  wouldn't  part. us,  either. 
...  Eh?  What  makes  you  look  like  that?" 

For  Jed's  expression  had  changed ;  his  hand  moved  across 
his  chin. 

"Eh — er — references?"  he  repeated. 

"Why,  why,  of  course.  I'd  want  references  from  the  folks 
he'd  worked  for,  statin'  that  he  was  honest  and  capable  and 
all  that.  With  those  I'd  hire  him  in  two  minutes,  as  I  said. 
You  fetch  him  along  and  see  So  long,  Jed.  See  you  later." 

He  hustled  out,  stopping  to  tear  from  the  outer  door 
the  placard  directing  callers  to  call  at  Abijah  Thompson's. 
Jed  returned  to  his  box  and  sat  down  once  more  to  ponder. 
In  his  innocence  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  references 
would  be  required. 

That  evening,  about  nine,  he  crossed  the  yard  and 
knocked  at  the  back  door  of  the  little  house.  Mrs.  Arm- 


184  "SHAVINGS" 


strong  answered  the  knock;  Barbara,  of  course,  was  in 
bed  and  asleep.  Ruth  was  surprised  to  see  her  landlord 
at  that,  for  him,  late  hour.  Also,  remembering  the  un 
ceremonious  way  in  which  he  had  permitted  her  to  depart 
at  the  end  of  their  interview  that  forenoon,  she  was  not 
as  cordial  as  usual.  She  had  made  him  her  confidant, 
why  she  scarcely  knew;  then,  after  expressing  great  in 
terest  and  sympathy,  he  had  suddenly  seemed  to  lose  in 
terest  in  the  whole  matter.  She  was  acquainted  with  his 
eccentricities  and  fits  of  absent-mindedness,  but  neverthe 
less  she  had  been  hurt  and  offended.  She  told  herself  that 
she  should  have  expected  nothing  more  from  "Shavings" 
Winslow,  the  person  about  whom  two-thirds  of  Orham 
joked  and  told  stories,  but  the  fact  remained  that  she  was 
disappointed.  And  she  was  angry,  not  so  much  with  him 
perhaps,  as  with  herself.  Why  had  she  been  so  foolish  as 
to  tell  any  one  of  their  humiliation? 

So  when  Jed  appeared  at  the  back  door  she  received  him 
rather  coldly.  He  was  quite  conscious  of  the  change  in 
temperature,  but  he  made  no  comment  and  offered  no 
explanation.  Instead  he  told  his  story,  the  story  of  his  in 
terview  with  Captain  Hunniwell.  As  he  told  it  her  face 
showed  at  first  interest,  then  hope,  and  at  the  last  radiant 
excitement.  She  clasped  her  hands  and  leaned  toward  him, 
her  eyes  shining. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Winslow,"  she  cried,  breathlessly,  "do  you 
mean  it?  Do  you  really  believe  Captain  Hunniwell  will 
give  my  brother  a  position  in  his  bank?" 

Jed  nodded  slowly.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  think  likely  he 
might.  Course  'twouldn't  be  any  great  of  a  place,  not  at 
first — nor  ever,  I  cal'late,  so  far  as  that  goes.  'Tain't  a  very 
big  bank  and  wages  ain't " 

But  she  interrupted.  "But  that  doesn't  make  any  differ 
ence,"  she  cried.  "Don't  you  see  it  doesn't!  The  salary 


'SHAVINGS"  185 


and  all  that  won't  count — now.  It  will  be  a  start  for 
Charles,  an  opportunity  for  him  to  feel  that  he  is  a  man 
again,  doing  a  man's  work,  an  honest  man's  work.  And 
he  will  be  here  where  I  can  be  with  him,  where  we  can 
be  together,  where  it  won't  be  so  hard  for  us  to  be  poor 
and  where  there  will  be  no  one  who  knows  us,  who  knows 
our  story.  Oh,  Mr.  Winslow,  is  it  really  true?  If  it  is, 
how — how  can  we  ever  thank  you?  How  can  I  ever  show 
you  how  grateful  I  feel?" 

Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  lips  parted  and  joy  shone 
in  her  eager  eyes.  Her  voice  broke  a  little  as  she  uttered 
the  words.  Jed  looked  at  her  and  then  quickly  looked 
away. 

"I — I — don't  talk  so,  Mrs.  Armstrong,"  he  pleaded, 
hastily.  "It — it  ain't  anything,  it  ain't  really.  It  just " 

"Not  anything?  Not  anything  to  find  my  brother  the 
opportunity  he  and  I  have  been  praying  for?  To  give  me 
the  opportunity  of  having  him  with  me?  Isn't  that  any 
thing?  It  is  everything.  Oh,  Mr.  Winslow,  if  you  can  do 
this  for  us " 

"Shsh!  Sshh!  Now,  Mrs.  Armstrong,  please.  You 
mustn't  say  I'm  doin'  it  for  you.  I'm  the  one  that  just 
happened  to  bhink  of  it,  that's  all.  You  could  have  done 
it  just  as  well,  if  you'd  thought  of  it." 

"Perhaps,"  with  a  doubtful  smile,  "but  I  should  never 
have  thought  of  it.  You  did  because  you  were  thinking  for 
me — for  my  brother  and  me.  And — and  I  thought  you 
didn't  care." 

"Eh?  .  .  ,  Didn't  care?" 

"Yes.  When  I  left  you  at  the  shop  this  morning  after 
our  talk.  You  were  so — so  odd.  You  didn't  speak,  or  offer 
to  advise  me  as  I  had  asked  you  to;  you  didn't  even  say 
good-by.  You  just  sat  there  and  let  me  go.  And  I  didn't 
understand  and " 


i86  "SHAVINGS" 


Jed  put  up  a  hand.    His  face  was  a  picture  of  distress. 

"Dear,  dear,  dear!"  he  exclaimed.  "Did  I  do  that?  I 
don't  remember  it,  but  of  course  I  did  if  you  say  so.  Now 
what  on  earth  possessed  me  to?  ...  Eh?"  as  the  idea 
occurred  to  him.  "Tell  me,  was  I  singin'?" 

"Why,  yes,  you  were.    That  is,  you  were — were " 

"Makin'  a  noise  as  if  I'd  swallowed  a  hymn  book  and 
one  of  the  tunes  was  chokin'  me  to  death?  Um-hm,  that's 
the  way  I  sing.  And  I  was  singin'  when  you  left  me,  eh? 
That  means  I  was  thinkin'  about  somethin'.  I  told  Babbie 
once,  and  it's  the  truth,  that  thinkin'  was  a  big  job  with 
me  and  when  I  did  it  I  had  to  drop  everything  else,  come 
up  into  the  wind  like  a  schooner,  you  know,  and  just  lay 
to  and  think.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  remember  now!  You  said  some- 
thin'  about  your  brother's  workin'  in  a  bank  and  that  set 
me  thinkin'  that  Sam  must  be  needin'  somebody  by  this 
time  in  Lute  Small's  place." 

"You  didn't  know  he  needed  any  one  ?" 

"No-o,  not  exactly;  but  I  knew  Lute,  and  that  amounted 
to  the  same  thing.  Mrs.  Armstrong,  I  do  hope  you'll  for 
give  me  for — for  singin'  and — and  all  the  rest  of  my  fool 
ish  actions." 

"Forgive  you!  Will  you  forgive  me  for  misjudging 
you  ?" 

"Land  sakes,  don't  talk  that  way.  But  there's  one  thing 
I  haven't  said  yec  and  you  may  not  like  it.  I  guess  you 
and  your  brother'll  have  to  go  to  Sam  and  tell  him  the 
whole  story." 

Her  expression  changed.  "The  whole  story?"  she  re 
peated.  "Why,  what  do  you  mean?  Tell  him  that  Charles 
has  been  in — in  prison?  You  don't  mean  that?" 

"Um-hm,"  gravely;  "I'm  afraid  I  do.  It  looks  to  me  as 
if  it  was  the  only  way." 

"But  we  can't !    Oh,  Mr.  Winslow,  we  can't  do  that." 


"SHAVINGS"  187 


"I  know  'twill  be  awful  hard  for  you.  But,  when  I  talked 
to  Sam  about  my  havin'  a  possible  candidate  for  the  bank 
place,  the  very  last  thing  he  said  was  that  he'd  be  glad  to 
see  him  providin'  his  references  was  all  right.  I  give  you 
my  word  I'd  never  thought  of  references,  not  till  then." 

"But  if  we  tell  him — tell  him  everything,  we  shall  only 
make  matters  worse,  shan't  we?  Of  course  he  won't  give 
him  the  position  then." 

"There's  a  chance  he  won't,  that's  true.  But  Sam  Hunni- 
well's  a  fine  feller,  there  ain't  any  better,  and  he  likes  you 
and — well,  he  and  I  have  been  cruisin'  in  company  for  a 
long  spell.  Maybe  he'll  give  your  brother  a  chance  to  make 
good.  I  hope  he  will." 

"You  only  hope?    I  thought  you  said  you  believed." 

"Well,  I  do,  but  of  course  it  ain't  sartin.    I  wish  'twas." 

She  was  silent.  Jed,  watching  her,  saw  the  last  traces 
of  happiness  and  elation  fade  from  her  face  and  disap 
pointment  and  discouragement  come  back  to  take  their 
places.  He  pitied  her,  and  he  yearned  to  help  her.  At 
last  he  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Armstrong,"  he  pleaded,  "of  course " 

She  interrupted. 

"No,"  she  said,  as  if  coming  to  a  final  decision  and  speak 
ing  that  decision  aloud :  "No,  I  can't  do  it." 

"Eh?    Can't  do— what?" 

"I  can't  have  Captain  Hunniwell  know  of  our  trouble. 
I  came  here  to  Orham,  where  no  one  knew  me,  to  avoid 
that  very  thing.  At  home  there  in  Middleford  I  felt  as  if 
every  person  I  met  was  staring  at  me  and  saying,  'Her 
brother  is  in  prison.'  I  was  afraid  to  have  Babbie  play 
with  the  other  children.  I  was — but  there,  I  won't  talk 
about  it.  I  can't.  And  I  cannot  have  it  begin  again  here. 
I'll  go  away  first.  We  will  all  go  away,  out  West,  any- 


i88  "SHAVINGS" 


where — anywhere  where  we  can  be — clean — and  like  other 
people." 

Jed  was  conscious  of  a  cold  sensation,  like  the  touch  of 
an  icicle,  up  and  down  his  spine.  Going  away!  She  and 
Babbie  going  away!  In  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  a  vision  of 
the  little  house  closed  once  more  and  shuttered  tight  as  it 
used  to  be.  He  gasped. 

"Now,  now,  Mrs.  Armstrong,"  he  faltered.  "Don't  talk 
about  goin'  away.  It — it  isn't  needful  for  you  to  do  any 
thing  like  that.  Of  course  it  ain't.  You — you  mustn't. 
I — we  can't  spare  you." 

She  drew  a  long  breath.  "I  would  go  to  the  other  end 
of  the  world,"  she  said,  "rather  than  tell  Captain  Hunni- 
well  the  truth  about  my  brother.  I  told  you  because  Babbie 
had  told  you  so  much  already.  .  .  .  Oh,"  turning  swiftly 
toward  him,  "you  won't  tell  Captain  Hunniwell,  will  you?" 

Before  he  could  answer  she  stretched  out  her  hand.  "Oh, 
please  forgive  me,"  she  cried.  "I  am  not  myself.  I  am 
almost  crazy,  1  think.  And  when  you  first  told  me  about 
the  position  in  the  bank  I  was  so  happy.  Oh,  Mr.  Winslow, 
isn't  there  some  way  by  which  Charles  could  have  that 
chance?  Couldn't — couldn't  he  get  it  and — and  work  there 
for — for  a  year  perhaps,  until  they  all  saw  what  a  splendid 
fellow  he  was,  and  then  tell  them — if  it  seemed  necessary? 
They  would  know  him  then,  and  like  him;  they  couldn't 
help  it,  every  one  likes  him." 

She  bmshed  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  Poor  Jed,  miser 
able  and  most  unreasonably  conscience-stricken,  writhed  in 
his  chair.  "I — I  don't  know,"  he  faltered.  "I  declare  I 

don't  see  how.  Er — er Out  in  that  bank  where  he  used 

to  work,  that  Wisconsin  bank,  he — you  said  he  did  first-rate 
there?" 

She  started.  "Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  eagerly.  "Oh,  he  was 
splendid  there !  And  the  man  who  was  the  head  of  that 


"SHAVINGS" 


bank  when  Charles  was  there  is  an  old  friend  of  ours,  of  the 
family;  he  has  retired  now  but  he  would  help  us  if  he 
could,  I  know.  I  believe  ...  I  wonder  if  ...  Mr. 
Winslow,  I  can't  tell  any  one  in  Orham  of  our  disgrace 
and  I  can't  bear  to  give  up  that  opportunity  for  my  brother. 
Will  you  leave  it  to  me  for  a  little  while?  Will  you  let  me 
think  it  over?" 

Of  course  Jed  said  he  would  and  went  back  to  his  lit 
tle  ro^m  over  the  shop.  As  lie  was  leaving  she  put  out 
her  hand  and  said,  with  impulsive  earnestness : 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Winslow.  Whatever  comes  of  this, 
or  if  nothing  comes  of  it,  I  can  never  thank  you  enough 
for  your  great  kindness." 

Jed  gingerly  shook  the  extended  hand  and  fled,  his  face 
scarlet. 

During  the  following  week,  although  he  saw  his  neigh 
bors  each  day,  and  several  times  a  day,  Mrs.  Armstrong 
did  not  mention  her  brother  or  the  chance  of  his  employ 
ment  in  the  Orham  bank.  Jed,  very  much  surprised  at  her 
silence,  was  tempted  to  ask  what  her  decision  was,  or  even 
if  she  had  arrived  at  one.  On  one  occasion  he  threw  out 
a  broad  hint,  but  the  hint  was  not  taken,  instead  the  lady 
changed  the  subject;  in  fact,  it  seemed  to  him  that  she 
made  it  a  point  of  avoiding  that  subject  and  was  anxious 
that  he  should  avoid  it,  also.  He  was  sure  she  had  not 
abandoned  the  idea  which,  at  first,  had  so  excited  her  in 
terest  and  raised  her  hopes.  She  seemed  to  him  to  be 
still  under  a  strong  nervous  strain,  to  speak  and  act  as  if 
under  repressed  excitement;  but  she  had  asked  him  to 
leave  the  affair  to  her,  to  let  her  think  it  over,  so  of  course 
he  could  do  or  say  nothing  until  she  had  spoken.  But  he 
wondered  and  speculated  a  good  deal  and  was  vaguely 
troubled.  When  Captain  Sam  Hunniwell  called  he  did  not 
again  refer  to  his  possible  candidate  for  the  position  now 


190  "SHAVINGS" 


held  by  Luther  Small.  And,  singularly  enough,  the  cap 
tain  himself  did  not  mention  the  subject. 

But  one  morning  almost  two  weeks  after  Jed's  discus 
sion  with  the  young  widow  she  and  Captain  Hunniwell 
came  into  the  windmill  shop  together.  Mrs.  Armstrong's 
air  of  excitement  was  very  much  in  evidence.  Her  cheeks 
were  red,  her  eyes  sparkled,  her  manner  animated.  Her 
landlord  had  never  seen  her  look  so  young,  or,  for  that 
matter,  so  happy. 

Captain  Sam  began  the  conversation.  He,  too,  seemed 
to  be  in  high  good  humor. 

"Well,  Jedidah  Wilfred  Shavin's',"  he  observed,  face 
tiously,  "what  do  you  suppose  I've  got  up  my  sleeve  this 
mornin'  ?" 

Jed  laid  down  the  chisel  he  was  sharpening. 

"Your  arms,  I  presume  likely,"  he  drawled. 

"Yes,  I've  got  my  arms  and  there's  a  fist  at  the  end  of 
each  one  of  'em.  Any  more — er — flippity  answers  like  that 
one  and  you're  liable  to  think  you're  struck  by  lightnin'. 
This  lady  and  I  have  got  news  for  you.  Do  you  know 
what  'tis  ?" 

Jed  looked  at  Mrs.  Armstrong  and  then  at  the  speaker. 

"No-o,"  he  said,  slowly. 

"Well,  to  begin  with  it's  this:  Lute  Small  is  leavin'  the 
Orham  National  a  week  from  next  Saturday  by  a  vote  of 
tight  to  one.  The  directors  and  the  cashier  and  I  are  the 
eight  and  he's  the  one.  Ho,  ho !  And  who  do  you  suppose 
comes  aboard  on  the  next  Monday  mornin'  to  take  over 
what  Lute  has  left  of  the  job?  Eh?  Who?  Why,  your 
own  candidate,  that's  who." 

Jed  started.  Again  he  looked  at  Mrs.  Armstrong  and, 
as  if  in  answer  to  that  look,  she  spoke. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Winslow,"  she  said,  quickly,  "my  brother  is 
coming  to  Orham  and  Captain  Hunniwell  has  given  him 


"SHAVINGS"  191 


the  position.  It  is  really  you  to  whom  he  owes  it  all.  You 
thought  of  it  and  spoke  to  the  captain  and  to  me." 

"But  why  in  time,"  demanded  Captain  Sam,  "didn't  you 
tell  me  right  out  that  'twas  Mrs.  Armstrong's  brother  you 
had  in  mind?  Gracious  king!  if  I'd  known  that  I'd  have 
had  Lute  out  a  fortni't  sooner." 

Jed  made  no  reply  to  this.  He  was  still  staring  at  the 
lady. 

"But— but— "  he  faltered,  "did  you— have  you " 

He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  word.  Ruth  was  stand 
ing  behind  the  captain  and  he  saw  the  frightened  look  in 
her  eyes  and  the  swift  movement  of  her  finger  to  her  lips. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said.  "I — I  have.  I  told  Captain  Hunni- 
well  of  Charlie's  experience  in  the  bank  in  Wisconsin.  He 
has  written  there  and  the  answer  is  quite  satisfactory,  or 
so  he  seems  to  think." 

"Couldn't  be  better,"  declared  Captain  Sam.  "Here's  the 
letter  from  the  man  that  used  to  be  the  bank  president  out 
there.  Read  it,  Jed,  if  you  want  to." 

Jed  took  the  letter  and,  with  a  hand  which  shook  a  lit 
tle,  adjusted  his  glasses  and  read.  It  was  merely  a  note, 
brief  and  to  the  point.  It  stated  simply  that  while  Charles 
Phillips  had  been  in  the  employ  of  their  institution  as 
messenger,  bookkeeper  and  assistant  teller,  he  had  been 
found  honest,  competent,  ambitious  and  thoroughly  satis 
factory. 

"And  what  more  do  I  want  than  that?"  demanded  the 
captain.  "Anybody  who  can  climb  up  that  way  afore  he's 
twenty-five  will  do  well  enough  for  yours  truly.  Course 
he  and  I  haven't  met  yet,  but  his  sister  and  I've  met,  and 
I'm  not  worryin'  but  what  I'll  like  the  rest  of  the  family. 
Besides,"  he  added,  with  a  combination  laugh  and  groan,' 
"it's  a  case  of  desperation  with  us  up  at  the  bank.  We've 
got  to  have  somebody  to  plug  that  leak  you  was  talkin' 


192  "SHAVINGS" 


about,  Jed,  and  we've  got  to  have  'em  immediate,  right  off 
quick,  at  once,  or  a  little  sooner.  It's  a  providence,  your 
brother  is  to  us,  Mrs.  Armstrong,"  he  declared;  "a  special 
providence  and  no  mistake." 

He  hurried  off  a  moment  later,  affirming  that  he  was  late 
at  the  bank  already. 

"Course  the  cashier's  there  and  the  rest  of  the  help," 
he  added,  "but  it  takes  all  hands  and  the  cat  to  keep  Lute 
from  puttin'  the  kindlin'  in  the  safe  and  lightin'  up  the 
stove  with  ten  dollar  bills.  So  long." 

After  he  had  gone  Jed  turned  to  his  remaining  visitor. 
His  voice  shook  a  little  as  he  spoke. 

"You  haven't  told  him!"  he  faltered,  reproachfully. 
"You — you  haven't  told  him!" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  couldn't — I  couldn't,"  she  de 
clared.  "Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  Please  don't !  I  know 
it  is  wrong.  I  feel  like  a  criminal;  I  feel  wicked.  But," 
defiantly,  "I  should  feel  more  wicked  if  I  had  told  him  and 
my  brother  had  lost  the  only  opportunity  that  might  have 
come  to  him.  He  will  make  good,  Mr.  Winslow.  I  know 
he  will.  He  will  make  them  respect  him  and  like  him. 
They  can't  help  it.  See !"  she  cried,  her  excitement  and  agi 
tation  growing;  "see  how  Mr.  Reed,  the  bank  president 
there  at  home,  the  one  who  wrote  that  letter,  see  what  he 
did  for  Charles !  He  knows,  too ;  he  knows  the  whole 
story.  I — I  wrote  to  him.  I  wrote  that  very  night  wnen 
you  told  me,  Mr.  Winslow.  I  explained  everything,  I 
begged  him — he  is  an  old,  old  friend  of  our  family — to 
do  this  thing  for  our  sakes.  You  see,  it  wasn't  asking  him 
to  lie,  or  to  do  anything  wrong.  It  was  just  that  he  tell  of 
Charles  and  his  ability  and  character  as  he  knew  them.  It 
wasn't  wrong,  was  it  ?" 

Jed  did  not  answer. 

"If  it  was,"  she  declared,  "I  can't  help  it.    I  would  do 


"SHAVINGS"  193 


it  again — for  the  same  reason — to  save  him  and  his  future, 
to  save  us  all.  I  can't  help  what  you  think  of  me.  It 
doesn't  matter.  All  that  does  matter  is  that  you  keep  silent 
and  let  my  brother  have  his  chance." 

Jed,  leaning  forward  in  his  chair  by  the  workbench,  put 
his  hand  to  his  forehead. 

"Don't — don't  talk  so,  Mrs.  Armstrong,"  he  begged. 
"You  know — you  know  I  don't  think  anything  you've  done 
is  wrong.  I  ain't  got  the  right  to  think  any  such  thing  as 
that.  And  as  for  keepin'  still — why,  I — I  did  hope  you 
wouldn't  feel  'twas  necessary  to  ask  that." 

"I  don't — I  don't.  I  know  you  and  I  trust  you.  You 
are  the  only  person  in  Orham  whom  I  have  trusted.  You 
know  that." 

"Why,  yes — why,  yes,  I  do  know  it  and — and  I'm  ever 
so  much  obliged  to  you.  More  obliged  than  I  can  tell  you, 
I  am.  Now — now  would  you  mind  tellin'  me  just  one  thing 
more?  About  this  Mr.  What's-his-name  out  West  in  the 
bank  there — this  Mr.  Reed — did  he  write  you  he  thought 
'twas  all  right  for  him  to  send  Sam  the — the  kind  of  let 
ter  he  did  send  him,  the  one  givin'  your  brother  such  a 
good  reference?" 

The  color  rose  in  her  face  and  she  hesitated  before  re 
plying. 

"No,"  she  confessed,  after  a  moment.  "He  did  not  write 
me  that  he  thought  it  right  to  give  Captain  Hunniwell  such 
a  reference.  In  fact  he  wrote  that  he  thought  it  all  wrong, 
deceitful,  bordering  on  the  dishonest.  He  much  preferred 
having  Charles  go  to  the  captain  and  tell  the  whole  truth. 
On  the  other  hand,  however,  he  said  he  realized  that  that 
might  mean  the  end  of  the  opportunity  here  and  perhaps 
public  scandal  and  gossip  by  which  we  all  might  suffer. 
And  he  said  he  had  absolute  confidence  that  Charles  was 
not  a  criminal  by  intent,  and  he  felt  quite  sure  that  he 


194  "SHAVINGS" 


would  never  go  wrong  again.  If  he  were  still  in  actire 
business,  he  said,  he  should  not  hesitate  to  employ  him. 
Therefore,  although  he  still  believed  the  other  course  safer 
and  better,  he  would,  if  Captain  Hunniwell  wrote,  answer 
as  I  had  asked.  And  he  did  answer  in  that  way.  So,  you 
see,"  she  cried,  eagerly,  "he  believes  in  Charles,  just  as  I  do. 
And  just  as  you  will  when  you  know,  Mr.  Winslow.  Oh, 
•won't  you  try  to  believe  now?" 

A  harder-hearted  man  than  Jed  Winslow  would  have 
found  it  difficult  to  refuse  such  a  plea  made  in  such  a  way 
by  such  a  woman.  And  Jed's  heart  was  anything  but  hard. 

"Now,  now,  Mrs.  Armstrong,"  he  stammered,  "you  don't 
have  to  ask  me  that.  Course  I  believe  in  the  poor  young 
chap.  And — and  I  guess  likely  everything's  goin'  to  come 
out  all  right.  That  Mr.  What's-his-name — er — Wright — no, 
Reed — I  got  read  and  write  mixed  up,  I  guess — he's  a  busi 
ness  man  and  he'd  ought  to  know  about  such  things  better'n 
I  do.  I  don't  doubt  it'll  come  out  fine  and  we  won't  worry 
any  more  about  it." 

"And  we  will  still  be  friends  ?  You  know,  Mr.  Winslow, 
you  are  the  only  real  friend  I  have  in  Orham.  And  you 
have  been  so  loyal." 

Jed  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"I — I  told  you  once,"  he  said,  "that  my  friends  gen 
erally  called  me  'Jed.'  " 

She  laughed.  "Very  well,  I'll  call  you  'Jed/  she  said. 
"But  turn  about  is  fair  play  and  you  must  call  me  'Ruth.' 
Will  you?  Oh,  there's  Babbie  calling  me.  Thank  you 
again,  for  Charles'  sake  and  my  own.  Good  morning — 
Jed." 

"Er — er — good  mornin',  Mrs.  Armstrong." 

"What?" 

"Er— I  mean  Mrs.  Ruth." 

The  most  of  that  forenoon,  that  is  the  hour  or  so  re- 


'SHAVINGS"  195 


training,  was  spent  by  Mr.  Winslow  in  sitting  by  the 
workbench  and  idly  scratching  upon  a  board  with  the  point 
of  the  chisel.  Sometimes  his  scratches  were  meaningless, 
sometimes  they  spelled  a  name,  a  name  which  he  seemed 
to  enjoy  spelling.  But  at  intervals  during  that  day,  and 
on  other  days  which  followed,  he  was  conscious  of  an 
uneasy  feeling,  a  feeling  almost  of  guilt  coupled  with  a 
dim  foreboding. 

Ruth  Armstrong  had  called  him  a  friend  and  loyal.  But 
had  he  been  as  loyal  to  an  older  friend,  a  friend  he  had 
known  all  his  life?  Had  he  been  loyal  to  Captain  Sam 
Hunniwell  ? 

That  was  the  feeling  of  guilt.  The  foreboding  was  not 
as  definite,  but  it  was  always  with  him ;  he  could  not  shake 
it  off.  All  his  life  he  had  dealt  truthfully  with  the  world, 
had  not  lied,  or  evaded,  or  compromised.  Now  he  hail 
permitted  himself  to  become  a  silent  partner  m  such  'a 
compromise.  And  seme  day,  somehow,  trouble  was  coming 
because  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XII 

BEFORE  the  end  of  another  week  Charles  Phillips 
came  to  Orham.     It  was  Ruth  who  told  Jed  the 
news.     She  came  into  the  windmill  shop  and,  stand 
ing  beside  the  bench  where  he  was  at  work,  she  said :    "Mr. 
Winslow,  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

Jed  put  down  the  pencil  and  sheet  of  paper  upon  which 
he  had  been  drawing  new  patterns  for  the  "gull  vane"  which 
was  to  move  its  wings  when  the  wind  blew.  This  great 
invention  had  not  progressed  very  far  toward  practical  per 
fection.  Its  inventor  had  been  busy  with  other  things  and 
had  of  late  rather  lost  interest  in  it.  But  Barbara's  interest 
had  not  flagged  and  to  please  her  Jed  had  promised  to  think 
a  little  more  about  it  during  the  next  day  or  so. 

"But  can't  you  make  it  flap  its  wings,  Uncle  Jed?"  the 
child  had  asked. 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin.  "W-e-e-11,"  he  drawled,  "I  don't 
know.  I  thought  I  could,  but  now  I  ain't  so  sure.  I  could 
make  'em  whirl  'round  and  'round  like  a  mill  or  a  set  of 
sailor  paddles,  but  to  make  'em  flap  is  different.  They've  got 
to  be  put  on  strong  enough  so  they  won't  flop  off.  You  see," 
he  added,  solemnly,  "if  they  kept  floppin'  off  they  wouldn't 
keep  flappin'  on.  There's  all  the  difference  in  the  world 
between  a  flap  and  flop." 

He  was  trying  to  reconcile  that  difference  when  Ruth 
entered  the  shop.  He  looked  up  at  her  absently.  "Mr. 
Winslow,"  she  began  again,  "I 

His  reproachful  look  made  her  pause  and  smile  slightly 
in  spite  of  herself. 

1 06 


'SHAVINGS"  197 


"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "Well,  then — Jed — I  have  some 
thing  to  tell  you.  My  brother  will  be  here  to-morrow:' 

Jed  had  been  expecting  to  hear  this  very  thing  almost 
any  day,  but  he  was  a  little  startled  nevertheless. 

"Sho !"  he  exclaimed.     "You  don't  tell  me !" 

"Yes.  He  is  coming  on  the  evening  train  to-morrow.  I 
had  word  from  him  this  morning." 

Jed's  hand  moved  to  his  chin.  "Hum  .  .  ."  he  mused. 
"I  guess  likely  you'll  be  pretty  glad  to  see  him." 

"I  shall  be  at  least  that,"  with  a  little  break  in  her  voice. 
"You  can  imagine  what  his  coming  will  mean  to  me.  No, 
I  suppose  you  can't  imagine  it;  no  one  can," 

Jed  did  not  say  whether  he  imagined  it  or  not. 

"I — I'm  real  glad  for  you,  Mrs.  Ruth,"  he  declared. 
"Mrs.  Ruth"  was  as  near  as  he  ever  came  to  fulfilling  their 
agreement  concerning  names. 

"I'm  sure  you  are.  And  for  my  brother's  sake  and  my 
own  I  am  very  grateful  to  you.  Mr.  Winslow — Jed,  I  mean 
— you  have  done  so  much  for  us  already;  will  you  do  one 
thing  more?" 

Jed's  answer  was  given  with  no  trace  of  his  customary 
hesitation.  "Yes,"  he  said. 

"This  is  really  for  me,  perhaps,  more  than  for  Charles — 
or  at  least  as  much." 

Again  there  was  no  hesitation  in  the  Winslow  reply. 

"That  won't  make  it  any  harder,"  he  observed,  gravely. 

"Thank  you.  It  is  just  this :  I  have  decided  not  to  tell 
my  brother  that  I  have  told  you  of  his — his  trouble,  of  his 
having  been — where  he  has  been,  or  anything  about  it.  He 
knows  I  have  not  told  Captain  Hunniwell;  I'm  sure  he 
will  take  it  for  granted  that  I  have  told  no  one.  I  think  it 
will  be  so  much  easier  for  the  poor  boy  if  he  can  come 
here  to  Orham  and  think  that  no  one  knows.  And  no  one 


198  "SHAVINGS" 


does  know  but  you.  You  understand,  don't  you  ?"  she  added, 
earnestly. 

He  looked  a  little  troubled,  but  he  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  slowly.     "I  understand,  I  cal'late." 

"I'm  sure  you  do.  Of  course,  if  he  should  ask  me  point- 
blank  if  I  had  told  any  one,  I  should  answer  truthfully,  tell 
him  that  I  had  told  you  and  explain  why  I  did  it  And 
some  day  I  shall  tell  him  whether  he  asks  or  not.  But  when 
he  first  comes  here  I  want  him  to  be — to  be — well,  as  nearly 
happy  as  is  possible  under  the  circumstances.  I  want  him 
to  meet  the  people  here  without  the  feeling  that  they  know 
he  has  been — a  convict,  any  of  them.  And  so,  unless  he 
asks,  I  shall  not  tell  him  that  even  you  know;  and  I  am 
sure  you  will  understand  and  not — not " 

"Not  say  anything  when  he's  around  that  might  let  the 
cat  out  of  the  bag.  Yes,  yes,  I  see.  Well.  I'll  be  careful ; 
yoAi  can  count  on  me,  Mrs.  Ruth." 

She  looked  down  into  his  homely,  earnest  face.  "I  do," 
she  said,  simply,  and  went  out  of  the  room.  For  several 
minutes  after  she  had  gone  Jed  sat  there  gazing  after  her. 
Then  he  sighed,  picked  up  his  pencil  and  turned  again  to 
the  drawing  of  the  gull. 

And  the  following  evening  young  Phillips  came.  Jed, 
looking  from  his  shop  window,  saw  the  depot-wagon  draw 
up  at  the  gate.  Barbara  was  the  first  to  alight.  Philander 
Hardy  came  around  to  the  back  of  the  vehicle  and  would 
have  assisted  her,  but  she  jumped  down  without  his  assist 
ance.  Then  came  Ruth  and,  after  her,  a  slim  young  fellow 
carrying  a  traveling  bag.  It  was  dusk  and  Jed  could  not 
see  his  face  plainly,  but  he  fancied  that  he  noticed  a  resem 
blance  to  his  sister  in  the  way  he  walked  and  the  carriage  of 
his  head.  The  two  went  into  the  little  house  together  and 
Jed  returned  to  his  lonely  supper.  He  was  a  trifle  blue  that 
evening,  although  he  probably  would  not  have  confessed  it 


"SHAVINGS"  199 


Least  of  all  would  he  have  confessed  the  reason,  which  was 
that  he  was  just  a  little  jealous.  He  did  not  grudge  his 
tenant  her  happiness  in  her  brother's  return,  but  he  could 
not  help  feeling  that  from  that  time  on  she  would  not  be 
as  intimate  and  confidential  with  him,  Jed  Winslow,  as  she 
had  been.  After  this  it  would  be  to  this  brother  of  hers 
that  she  would  turn  for  help  and  advice.  Well,  of  course, 
that  was  what  she  should  do,  what  any  one  of  sense  would 
do,  but  Jed  was  uncomfortable  .all  the  same.  Also,  because 
he  was  himself,  he  felt  a  sense  of  guilty  remorse  at  being 
uncomfortable. 

The  next  morning  he  was  presented  to  the  new  arrival. 
It  was  Barbara  who  made  the  presentation.  She  came 
skipping  into  the  windmill  shop  leading  the  young  man  by 
the  hand. 

"Uncle  Jed,"  she  said,  "this  is  my  Uncle  Charlie.  He's 
been  away  and  he's  come  back  and  he's  going  to  work  here 
always  and  live  in  the  bank.  No,  I  mean  he's  going  to  work 

in  the  bank  always  and  live No,  I  don't,  but  you  know 

what  I  do  mean,  don't  you,  Uncle  Jed?" 

Charles  Phillips  smiled.  "If  he  does  he  must  be  a  mind- 
reader,  Babbie,"  he  said.  Then,  extending  his  hand,  he 
added :  "Glad  to  know  you,  Mr.  Winslow.  I've  heard  a  lot 
about  you  from  Babbie  and  Sis." 

Jed  might  have  replied  that  he  had  heard  a  lot  about  him 
alsoj  but  he  did  not.  Instead  he  said  "How  d'ye  do,"  shook 
the  proffered  hand,  and  looked  the  speaker  over.  What  he 
saw  impressed  him  favorably.  Phillips  was  a  good-looking 
young  fellow,  with  a  pleasant  smile,  a  taking  manner  and  a 
pair  of  dark  eyes  which  reminded  Mr.  Winslow  of  his 
sister's.  It  was  easy  to  believe  Ruth's  statement  that  he 
had  been  a  popular  favorite  among  their  acquaintances  in 
Middlefprd:  he  was  the  sort  the  average  person  would  like 


200  "SHAVINGS" 


at  once,  the  sort  which  men  become  interested  in  and  women 
spoil. 

He  was  rather  quiet  during  this  first  call.  Babbie  did 
two-thirds  of  the  talking.  She  felt  it  her  duty  as  an  older 
inhabitant  to  display  "Uncle  Jed"  and  his  creations  for  her 
relative's  benefit.  Vanes,  sailors,  ships  and  mills  were 
pointed  out  and  commented  upon. 

"He  makes  every  one,  Uncle  Charlie,"  she  declared  sol 
emnly.  "He's  made  every  one  that's  here  and — oh,  lots  and 

lots  more.  He  made  the  big  mill  that's  up  in  our  garret 

You  haven't  seen  it  yet,  Uncle  Charlie ;  it's  going  to  be  out 
on  our  lawn  next  spring — and  he  gave  it  to  me  for  a — for 

a What  kind  of  a  present  was  that  mill  you  gave  me, 

Uncle  Jed,  that  time  when  Mamma  and  Petunia  and  I  were 
going  back  to  Mrs.  Smalley's  because  we  thought  you  didn't 
want  us  to  have  the  house  any  longer  ?" 

Jed  looked  puzzled. 

"Eh?"  he  queried.  "What  kind  of  a  present?  I  don't 
know's  I  understand  what  you  mean." 

"I  mean  what  kind  of  a  present  was  it.  It  wasn't  a 
Christmas  present  or  a  birthday  present  or  anything  like 
that,  but  it  must  be  some  kind  of  one.  What  kind  of  pres 
ent  would  you  call  it,  Uncle  Jed  ?" 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin. 

"W-e-e-11,"  he  drawled,  "I  guess  likely  you  might  call  it  a 
forget-me-not  present,  if  you  had  to  call  it  anything." 

Barbara  pondered. 

"A — a  forget-me-not  is  a  kind  of  flower,  isn't  it?"  she 
asked. 

"Um-hm." 

"But  this  is  a  windmill.  How  can  you  make  a  flower 
out  of  a  windmill,  Uncle  Jed?" 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin.     "Well,  that's  a  question,"  he  ad- 


"SHAVINGS"  201 


mitted.  "But  you  can  make  flour  in  a  windmill,  'cause  I've 
seen  it  done." 

More  pondering  on  the  young  lady's  part  Then  she  gave 
it  up. 

"You  mustn't  mind  if  you  don't  understand  him,  Uncle 
Charlie,"  she  said,  in  her  most  confidential  and  grown-up 
manner.  "He  says  lots  of  things  Petunia  and  I  don't  under 
stand  at  all,  but  he's  awful  nice,  just  the  same.  Mamma 
says  he's  choking — no,  I  mean  joking  when  he  talks  that 
way  and  that  we'll  understand  the  jokes  lots  better  when 
we're  older.  She  understands  them  almost  always,"  she 
added  proudly. 

Phillips  laughed.  Jed's  slow  smile  appeared  and  van 
ished.  "Looks  as  if  facin'  my  jokes  was  no  child's  play, 
don't  it,"  he  observed.  "Well,  I  will  give  in  that  gettin' 
any  fun  out  of  'em  is  a  man's  size  job." 

On  the  following  Monday  the  young  man  took  up  his 
duties  in  the  bank.  Captain  Hunniwell  interviewed  him, 
liked  him,  and  hired  him  all  in  the  same  forenoon.  By  the 
end  of  the  first  week  of  their  association  as  employer  and 
employee  the  captain  liked  him  still  better.  He  dropped  in 
at  the  windmill  shop  to  crow  over  the  fact. 

"He  takes  hold  same  as  an  old-time  first  mate  used  to 
take  hold  of  a  green  crew,"  he  declared.  "He  had  his  job 
jumpin'  to  the  whistle  before  the  second  day  was  over.  I 
declare  I  hardly  dast  to  wake  up  mornin's  for  fear  I'll  find 
out  our  havin'  such  a  smart  feller  is  only  a  dream  and  that 
tlie  livin'  calamity  is  Lute  Small.  And  to  think/'  he  added, 
"that  you  knew  about  him  for  the  land  knows  how  long 
and  would  only  hint  instead  of  tellin'.  I  don't  know  as 
you'd  have  told  yet  if  his  sister  hadn't  told  first  Eh? 
Would  you?" 

Jed  deliberately  picked  a  loose  bristle  from  his  paint 
brush. 


202  "SHAVINGS" 


"Maybe  not,"  he  admitted. 

"Gracious  king !     Well,  why  not  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I'm  kind  of — er — funny  that  way. 
Like  to  take  my  own  time,  I  guess  likely.  Maybe  you've 
noticed  it,  Sam." 

"Eh?  Maybe  I've  noticed  it?  A  blind  cripple  that  was 
born  deef  and  dumb  would  have  noticed  that  the  first  time 
he  ran  across  you.  What  on  earth  are  you  doin'  to  that 
paint  brush ;  tryin'  to  mesmerize  it  ?" 

His  friend,  who  had  been  staring  mournfully  at  the 
brush,  now  laid  it  down. 

"I  was  tryin'  to  decide,"  he  drawled,  "whether  it  needed 
hair  tonic  or  a  wig.  So  you  like  this  Charlie  Phillips,  do 
you?" 

"Sartin  sure  I  do!  And  the  customers  like  him,  too. 
Why,  old  Melissa  Busteed  was  in  yesterday  and  he  waited 
on  her  for  half  an  hour,  seemed  so,  and  when  the  agony 
was  over  neither  one  of  'em  had  got  mad  enough  so  any 
body  outside  the  buildin'  would  notice  it.  And  that's  a 
miracle  that  ain't  happened  in  that  bank  for  more'n  one 
year.  Why,  I  understand  Melissa  went  down  street  tellin' 
all  hands  what  a  fine  young  man  we'd  got  workin'  for 
us.  ...  Here,  what  are  you  laughin'  at?" 

The  word  was  ill-chosen ;  Jed  seldom  laughed,  but  he  had 
smiled  slightly  and  the  captain  noticed  it. 

"What  are  you  grinnin'  at?"  he  repeated. 

Jed's  hand  moved  across  his  chin. 

"Gab  Bearse  was  in  a  spell  ago,"  he  replied,  "and  he 
was  tellin'  about  what  Melissa  said." 

"Well,  she  said  what  I  just  said  she  said,  didn't  she?" 

Mr.  Winslow  nodded.  "Um-hm,"  he  admitted,  "she 
said— er— all  of  that." 

"All  of  it?    Was  there  some  more?" 

"  'Cordin'  to  Gabe  there  was.     'Cordin'  to  him  she  said 


"SHAVINGS"  203 


.  .  .  she  said  ...  er  ...  Hum!  this  brush  ain't  much 
better'n  the  other.  Seem  to  be  comin'  down  with  the 
mange,  both  of  'em." 

"Gracious  king!  Consarn  the  paint  brushes!  Tell  me 
what  Melissa  said." 

"Eh?  ...  Oh,  yes,  yes.  .  .  .  Well,  'cordin'  to  Gabe  she 
said  'twas  a  comfort  to  know  there  was  a  place  in  this 
town  where  an  unprotected  female  could  go  and  not  be 
insulted." 

Captain  Sam's  laugh  could  have  been  heard  across  the 
road. 

"Ho,  ho !"  he  roared.  "An  unprotected  female,  eh  ? 
'Cordin'  to  my  notion  it's  the  male  that  needs  protection 
,when  Melissa's  around.  I've  seen  Lute  Small  standin'  in 
the  teller's  cage,  tongue-tied  and  with  the  sweat  standin'  on 
his  forehead,  while  Melissa  gave  him  her  candid  opinion 
of  anybody  that  would  vote  to  allow  alcohol  to  be  sold  by 
doctors  in  this  town.  And  'twas  ten  minutes  of  twelve 
Saturday  mornin',  too,  and  there  was  eight  men  waitin' 
their  turn  in  line,  and  nary  one  of  them  or  Lute  either  had 
the  spunk  to  ask  Melissa  to  hurry.  Ho,  ho!  'unprotected 
female'  is  good !" 

He  had  his  laugh  out  and  then  added:  "But  there's  no 
doubt  that  Charlie's  goin'  to  be  popular  with  the  women. 
Why,  even  Maud  seems  to  take  a  shine  to  him.  Said  she 
was  surprised  to  have  me  show  such  good  judgment. 
Course  she  didn't  really  mean  she  was  surprised,"  he 
hastened  to  explain,  evidently  fearing  that  even  an  old 
friend  like  Jed  might  think  he  was  criticizing  his  idolized 
daughter.  "She  was  just  teasin'  her  old  dad,  that's  all. 
But  I  could  see  that  Charlie  kind  of  pleased  her.  Well,  he 
pleases  me  and  he  pleases  the  cashier  and  the  directors. 
We  agree,  all  of  us,  that  we're  mighty  lucky.  I  gave  you 
some  of  the  credit  for  gettin'  him  for  us,  Jed,"  he  added 


204  "SHAVINGS" 


magnanimously.  "You  don't  really  deserve  much,  because 
you  hung  back  so  and  wouldn't  tell  his  name,  but  I  gave 
it  to  you  just  the  same.  What's  a  little  credit  between 
friends,  eh?  That's  what  Bluey  Batcheldor  said  the  other 
day  when  he  came  in  and  wanted  to  borrow  a  hundred 
dollars  on  his  personal  note.  Ho!  ho!" 

Captain  Sam's  glowing  opinion  of  his  paragon  was  soon 
echoed  by  the  majority  of  Orham's  population.  Charlie 
Phillips,  although  quiet  and  inclined  to  keep  to  himself,  was 
liked  by  almost  every  one.  In  the  bank  and  out  of  it  he 
was  polite,  considerate  and  always  agreeable.  During 
these  first  days  Jed  fancied  that  he  detected  in  the  young 
man  a  certain  alert  dread,  a  sense  of  being  on  guard,  a 
reserve  in  the  presence  of  strangers,  but  he  was  not  sure 
that  this  was  anything  more  than  fancy,  a  fancy  inspired 
by  the  fact  that  he  knew  the  boy's  secret  and  was  on  the 
lookout  for  something  of  the  sort.  At  all  events  no  one 
else  appeared  to  notice  it  and  it  became  more  and  more  evi 
dent  that  Charlie,  as  nine-tenths  of  Orham  called  him 
within  a  fortnight,  was  destined  to  be  the  favorite  here 
that,  according  to  his  sister,  he  had  been  everywhere  else. 

Of  course  there  were  a  few  who  did  not,  or  would  not, 
like  him.  Luther  Small,  the  deposed  bank  clerk,  was  bitter 
in  his  sneers  and  caustic  in  his  comments.  However,  as 
Lute  loudly  declared  that  he  was  just  going  to  quit  any 
how,  that  he  wouldn't  have  worked  for  old  Hunniwell 
another  week  if  he  was  paid  a  million  a  minute  for  it,  his 
hatred  of  his  successor  seemed  rather  unaccountable. 
Barzilla  Small,  Luther's  fond  parent,  also  professed  intense 
dislike  for  the  man  now  filling  his  son's  position  in  the  bank. 
"I  don't  know  how  'tis,"  affirmed  Barzilla,  "but  the  fust 
time  I  see  that  young  upstart  I  says  to  myself:  'Young 
feller,  you  ain't  my  kind.'  This  remark  being  repeated  to 


"SHAVINGS"  205 


Captain  Sam,  the  latter  observed:  'That's  gospel  truth  and 
thank  the  Lord  for  it.'  " 

Another  person  who  refused  to  accept  Phillips  favorably 
was  Phineas  Babbitt.  Phineas's  bitterness  was  not  the  sort 
to  sweeten  over  night.  He  disliked  the  new  bank  clerk 
and  he  told  Jed  Winslow  why.  They  met  at  the  post  office 
— Phineas  had  not  visited  the  windmill  shop  since  the  day 
when  he  received  the  telegram  notifying  him  of  his  son's 
enlistment — and  some  one  of  the  group  waiting  for  the 
mail  had  happened  to  speak  of  Charlie  Phillips.  "He's  a 
nice  obligin'  young  chap,"  said  the  speaker,  Captain  Jere 
miah  Burgess.  "I  like  him  fust-rate;  everybody  does,  I 
guess." 

Mr.  Babbitt,  standing  apart  from  the  group,  his  bristling 
chin  beard  moving  as  he  chewed  his  eleven  o'clock  allow 
ance  of  "Sailor's  Sweetheart,"  turned  and  snarled  over  his 
shoulder. 

"I  don't,"  he  snapped. 

His  tone  was  so  sharp  and  his  utterance  so  unexpected 
that  Captain  Jerry  jumped. 

"Land  of  Goshen!  You  bark  like  a  dog  with  a  sore 
throat,"  he  exclaimed.  "Why  don't  you  like  him?" 

"  'Cause  I  don't,  that's  all." 

"That  ain't  much  of  a  reason,  seems  to  me.  What  have 
you  got  against  him,  Phin?  You  don't  know  anything  to 
his  discredit,  do  you?" 

"Never  you  mind  whether  I  do  or  not." 

Captain  Jerry  grunted  but  seemed  disinclined  to  press 
the  point  further.  Every  one  was  surprised  therefore 
when  Jed  Winslow  moved  across  to  where  Phineas  was 
standing,  and  looking  mildly  down  at  the  little  man,  asked : 
"Do  you  know  anything  against  him,  Phin  ?" 

"None  of  your  business.  What  are  you  buttin'  in  for, 
Shavin's?" 


206  "SHAVINGS" 


"I  ain't.  I  just  asked  you,  that's  all.  Do  you  know 
anything  against  Charlie  Phillips?" 

"None  of  your  business,  I  tell  you." 

"I  know  it  ain't.     But  do  you,  Phin?" 

Each  repetition  of  the  question  had  been  made  in  the 
same  mild,  monotonous  drawl.  Captain  Jerry  and  the  other 
loungers  burst  into  a  laugh.  Mr.  Babbitt's  always  simmer 
ing  temper  boiled  over. 

"No,  I  don't,"  he  shouted.  "But  I  don't  know  anything 
in  his  favor,  neither.  He's  a  pet  of  Sam  Hunniwell  and 
that's  enough  for  me.  Sam  Hunniwell  and  every  one  of 
his  chums  can  go  to  the  devil.  Every  one  of  'em;  do  you 
understand  that,  Jed  Winslow?" 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin.  The  solemn  expression  of  his  face 
did  not  change  an  atom.  "Thank  you,  Phin,"  he  drawled. 
"When  I'm  ready  to  start  I'll  get  you  to  give  me  a  letter  of 
introduction." 

Jed  had  been  fearful  that  her  brother's  coming  might 
lessen  the  intimate  quality  of  Ruth  Armstrong's  friendship 
with  and  dependence  upon  him.  He  soon  Discovered,  to 
his  delight,  that  these  fears  were  groundless.  He  found 
that  the  very  fact  that  Ruth  had  made  him  her  sole  con 
fidant  provided  a  common  bond  which  brought  them  closer 
together.  Ruth's  pride  in  her  brother's  success  at  the 
bank  and  in  the  encomiums  of  the  townsfolk  had  to  find 
expression  somewhere.  She  could  express  them  to  her 
landlord  and  she  did.  Almost  every  day  she  dropped  in  at 
the  windmill  shop  for  a  moment's  call  and  chat,  the  subject 
of  that  chat  always,  of  course,  the  same. 

"I  told  you  he  would  succee^, '  she  declared,  her  eyes 
shining  and  her  face  alight.  "I  told  you  so,  Jed.  And  he 
has.  Mr.  Barber,  the  cashier,  told  me  yesterday  that 
Charles  was  the  best  man  they  had  had  in  the  bank  for 
years.  And  every  time  I  meet  Captain  Hunniwell  he  stops* 


"SHAVINGS"  207 


to  shake  hands  and  congratulates  me  on  having  such  a 
brother.  And  they  like  him,  not  only  because  he  is  suc 
cessful  in  the  bank,  but  for  himself ;  so  many  people  have 
told  me  so.  Why,  for  the  first  time  since  we  came  to 
Orham  I  begin  to  feel  as  if  I  were  becoming  acquainted, 
making  friends." 

Jed  nodded.    "He's  a  nice  young  chap,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"Of  course  he  is.  ...  You  mustn't  mind  my  shameless 
family  boasting,"  she  added,  with  a  little  laugh.  "It  is 
only  because  I  am  so  proud  of  him,  and  so  glad — so  glad 
for  us  all." 

Jed  did  not  mind.  It  is  doubtful  if  at  that  moment  he 
was  aware  of  what  she  was  saying.  He  was  thinking  how 
her  brother's  coming  had  improved  her,  how  well  she  was 
look>°\  how  much  more  color  there  was  in  her  cheeks, 
and  how  good  it  was  to  hear  her  laugh  once  more.  The 
windmill  shop  was  a  different  place  when  she  came.  It 
was  a  lucky  day  for  him  when  the  Powlesses  frightened 
him  into  letting  Barbara  and  her  mother  move  into  the  old 
house  for  a  month's  trial. 

Of  course  he  did  not  express  these  thoughts  aloud,  in 
fact  he  expressed  nothing  whatever.  He  thought  and 
thought  and,  after  a  time,  gradually  became  aware  that 
there  was  absolute  silence  in  the  shop.  He  looked  at  his 
caller  and  found  that  she  (vas  regarding  him  intently,  a 
twinkle  in  her  eye  and  an  amused  expression  about  her 
mouth.  He  started  and  awoke  from  his  day-dream. 

"Eh?"  he  exclaimed.     "Yes-^>yes,  I  guess  so." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  do  ?"  she  said.  "Why,  I  thought  your  opinion  was 
exactly  the  opposite." 

*Eh?     Oh,  yes,  so  'tis,  so  'tis." 

"Of  course.     And  just  what  did  you  say  about  it?" 

Jed  was  confused.     He  swallowed  hard,  hesitated,  swal- 


208  "SHAVINGS" 


lowed  again  and  stammered:     "I Why,  I — that  is — • 

She  laughed  merrily.  "You  are  a  very  poor  pretender, 
Jed,"  she  declared.  "Confess,  you  haven't  the  least  idea 
what  opinion  I  mean." 

"Well — well,  to  be  right  down  honest,  I — I  don't  know's 
I  have,  Mrs.  Ruth." 

"Of  course,  you  haven't.  There  isn't  any  opinion.  You 
have  been  sitting  there  for  the  last  five  minutes,  staring 
straight  at  me  and  picking  that  paint  brush  to  pieces.  I 
doubt  if  you  even  knew  I  was  here." 

"Eh?  Oh,  yes,  I  know  that,  I  know  that  all  right.  Tut! 
tut!"  inspecting  the  damaged  brush.  "That's  a  nice  mess, 
ain't  it?  Now  what  do  you  suppose  I  did  that  for?  I'm 
scared  to  death,  when  I  have  one  of  those  go-to-sleeptic  fits, 
that  I'll  pick  my  head  to  pieces.  Not  that  that  would  be  as 
big  a  loss  as  a  good  paint  brush,"  he  added,  reflectively. 

His  visitor  smiled.  "I  think  it  would,"  she  said. 
"Neither  Babbie  nor  I  could  afford  to  lose  that  head ;  it  and 
its  owner  have  been  too  thoughtful  and  kind.  But  tell  me, 
what  were  you  thinking  about  just  then?" 

The  question  appeared  to  embarrass  Mr.  Winslow  a  good 
deal.  He  colored,  fidgeted  and  stammered.  "Nothin', 
nothin'  of  any  account,"  he  faltered.  "My — er — my  brain 
was  takin'  a  walk  around  my  attic,  I  cal'late.  There's 
plenty  of  room  up  there  for  a  tramp." 

"No,  tell  me ;  I  want  to  know."  Her  expression  changed 
and  she  added:  "You  weren't  thinking  of — of  Charles' — • 
his  trouble  at  Middleford?  You  don't  still  think  me 
wrong  in  not  telling  Captain  Hunniwell?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  no.     I  wasn't  thinkin'  that  at  all." 

"But  you  don't  answer  my  question.  Well,  never  mind 
I  am  really  almost  happy  for  the  first  time  in  ever  so  long 
and  I  mean  to  remain  so  if  I  can.  I  am  glad  I  did  not 


'SHAVINGS"  209 


tell — glad.  And  you  must  agree  with  me,  Mr.  Winslow — 
Jed,  I  mean — or  I  shall  not  run  in  so  often  to  talk  in  this 
confidential  way." 

"Eh?  Not  run  in?  Godfreys,  Mrs.  Ruth,  don't  talk 
so !  Excuse  my  strong  language,  but  you  scared  me,  talkin' 
about  not  runnin'  in." 

"You  deserve  to  be  scared,  just  a  little,  for  criticizing  me 
in  your  thoughts.  Oh,  don't  think  me  frivolous,"  she 
pleaded,  with  another  swift  change.  "I  realize  it  was  all 
wrong.  And  some  time,  by  and  by,  after  Charles  has 
firmly  established  himself,  after  they  really  know  him,  I 
shall  go  to  the  bank  people,  or  he  will  go  to  them,  and  tell 
the  whole  story.  By  that  time  I'm  sure — I'm  sure  they  will 
forgive  us  both.  Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

Jed  would  have  forgiven  her  anything.     He  nodded. 

"Sartin  sure  they  will,"  he  said.  Then,  asking  a  ques 
tion  that  had  been  in  his  thoughts  for  some  time,  he  said: 
"How  does  your  brother  feel  about  it  himself,  Mrs.  Ruth?" 

"At  first  he  thought  he  should  tell  everything.  He  did 
not  want  to  take  the  position  under  false  pretenses,  he 
said.  But  when  I  explained  how  he  might  lose  this  oppor 
tunity  and  what  an  opportunity  it  might  be  for  us  all  he 
agreed  that  perhaps  it  was  best  to  wait  And  I  am  sure  it 
is  best,  Jed.  But  then,  I  mean  to  put  the  whole  dreadful 
business  from  my  mind,  if  I  can,  and  be  happy  with  my 
little  girl  and  my  brother.  And  I  am  happy ;  I  feel  almost 
like  a  girl  myself.  So  you  mustn't  remind  me,  Jed,  and 
you  mustn't  criticize  me,  even  though  you  and  I  both  know 
you  are  right.  You  are  my  only  confidant,  you  know,  and 
I  don't  know  what  in  the  world  I  should  do  without  you,  so 
try  to  bear  with  me,  if  you  can." 

Jed  observed  that  he  guessed  likely  there  wouldn't  be 
much  trouble  at  his  end  of  the  line,  providing  she  could 
manage  to  worry  along  with  a  feller  that  went  to  sleep 


210  "SHAVINGS" 


sittin*  up,  and  in  the  daytime,  like  an  owl.  After  she  had 
gone,  however,  he  again  relapsed  into  slumber,  and  his 
dreams,  judging  by  his  expression,  must  have  been  pleasant. 

That  afternoon  he  had  an  unexpected  visit.  He  had  just 
finished  washing  his  dinner  dishes  and  he  and  Babbie  were 
in  the  outer  shop  together,  when  the  visitor  came.  Jed 
was  droning  "Old  Hundred"  with  improvisations  of  his 
own,  the  said  improvising  having  the  effect  of  slowing 
down  the  already  extremely  deliberate  anthem  until  the  re 
sult  compared  to  the  original  was  for  speed,  as  an  oyster 
scow  compared  to  an  electric  launch.  This  musical  crawl 
he  used  as  an  accompaniment  to  the  sorting  and  piling  of 
various  parts  of  an  order  just  received  from  a  Southern 
resort.  Barbara  was  helping  him,  at  least  she  called  her 
activities  "helping."  When  Jed  had  finished  counting  a 
pile  of  vanes  or  mill  parts  she  counted  them  to  make  sure. 
Usually  her  count  and  his  did  not  agree,  so  both  counted 
again,  getting  in  each  other's  way  and,  as  Mr.  Winslow 
expressed  it,  having  a  good  time  generally.  And  this  re 
mark,  intended  to  be  facetious,  was  after  all  pretty  close 
to  the  literal  truth.  Certainly  Babbie  was  enjoying  herself, 
and  Jed,  where  an  impatient  man  would  have  been  frantic, 
was  enjoying  her  enjoyment.  Petunia,  perched  in  lop 
sided  fashion  on  a  heap  of  mill-sides  was,  apparently, 
superintending. 

"There !"  declared  Jed,  stacking  a  dozen  sailors  beside  a 
dozen  of  what  the  order  called  "birdhouses  medium 
knocked  down."  "There!  that's  the  livin'  last  one,  I  do 
believe.  Hi  hum!  Now  we've  got  to  box  'em,  haven't 
we?  ...  Ye-es,  yes,  yes,  yes.  .  .  .  Hum.  .  .  . 
« 'Di— de— di— de— di— de.  .  .  .' 

"Where's  that  hammer?    Oh,  yes,  here  'tis." 
"  'Di— de— di— de ' 


"SHAVINGS"  211 


Now  where  on  earth  have  I  put  that  pencil,  Babbie? 
Have  I  swallowed  it?  Don't  tell  me  you've  seen  me  swal 
low  it,  'cause  that  flavor  of  lead-pencil  never  did  agree 
with  me." 

The  child  burst  into  a  trill  of  laughter. 

"Why,  Uncle  Jed,"  she  exclaimed,  "there  it  is,  behind 
your  ear." 

"Is  it?  Sho,  so  'tis!  Now  that  proves  the  instinct  of 
dumb  animals,  don't  it?  That  lead-pencil  knew  enough  to 
realize  that  my  ear  was  so  big  that  anything  short  of  a 
cord-wood  stick  could  hide  behind  it.  Tut,  tut!  Sur- 
prisin',  surprisin' !" 

"But,  Uncle  Jed,  a  pencil  isn't  an  animal." 

"Eh?  Ain't  it?  Seemed  to  me  I'd  read  somethm'  about 
the  ragin'  lead-pencil  seekin'  whom  it  might  devour.  But 
maybe  that  was  a — er — lion  or  a  clam  or  somethin'." 

Babbie  looked  at  him  in  puzzled  fashion  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  sagely  shook  her  head  and  declared :  "Uncle  Jed, 
I  think  you  are  perfectly  scru-she-aking.  Petunia  and  I 

are  convulshed.  We "  she  stopped,  listened,  and  then 

announced:  "Uncle  Jed,  I  think  somebody  came  up  the 
walk." 

The  thought  received  confirmation  immediately  in  the 
form  of  a  knock  at  the  door.  Jed  looked  over  his  spec 
tacles. 

"Hum,"  he  mused,  sadly,  "there's  no  peace  for  the 
wicked,  Babbie.  No  sooner  get  one  order  all  fixed  and 
out  of  the  way  than  along  comes  a  customer  and  you  have 
to  get  another  one  ready.  If  I'd  known  'twas  goin'  to  be 
like  this  I'd  never  have  gone  into  business,  would  you? 
But  maybe  'tain't  a  customer,  maybe  it's  Cap'n  Sam  or 
Gabe  Bearse  or  somebody.  .  .  .  They  wouldn't  knock, 
though,  'tain't  likely;  anyhow  Gabe  wouldn't.  .  .  .  Come 
in,"  he  called,  as  the  knock  was  repeated. 


212  -'SHAVINGS" 


The  person  who  entered  the  shop  was  a  tall  man  in 
uniform.  The  afternoon  was  cloudy  and  the  outer  shop, 
piled  high  with  stock  and  lumber,  was  shadowy.  The  man 
in  uniform  looked  at  Jed  and  Barbara  and  they  looked  at 
him.  He  spoke  first 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "but  is  your  name  Winslow?" 

Jed  nodded.  "Yes,  sir,"  he  replied,  deliberately.  "I 
guess  likely  'tis." 

"I  have  come  here  to  see  if  you  could  let  me  have " 

Babbie  interrupted  him.  Forgetting  her  manners  in  the 
excitement  of  the  discovery  which  had  just  flashed  upon 
her,  she  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Jed!"  she  exclaimed. 

Jed,  startled,  turned  toward  her. 

"Yes?"  he  asked,  hastily.     "What's  the  matter?" 

"Don't  you  know?    He — he's  the  nice  officer  one." 

"Eh?  The  nice  what?  What  are  you  talkin'  about, 
Babbie?" 

Babbie,  now  somewhat  abashed  and  ashamed  of  her  in 
voluntary  outburst,  turned  red  and  hesitated. 

"I  mean,"  she  stammered,  "I  mean  he — he's  the — officer 
one  that — that  was  nice  to  us  that  day." 

"That  day?  What  day?  .  .  .  Just  excuse  the  little  girl, 
won't  you?"  he  added,  apologetically,  turning  to  the  caller. 
"She's  made  a  mistake ;  she  thinks  she  knows  you,  I  guess." 

"But  I  do,  Uncle  Jed.  Don't  you  remember?  Over  at 
the  flying  place?" 

The  officer  himself  took  a  step  forward. 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  said,  pleasantly.  "She  is  quite 
right.  I  thought  your  faces  were  familiar.  You  and  she 
were  over  at  the  camp  that  day  when  one  of  our  construc 
tion  plans  was  lost.  She  found  it  for  us.  And  Lieutenant 
Rayburn  and  I  have  been  grateful  many  times  since,"  he 
added. 


"SHAVINGS"  213 


Jed  recognized  him  then. 

"Well,  I  snum !"  he  exclaimed.  "Of  course !  Sartin ! 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I'd  have  lost  my  life  and  Babbie'd 
have  lost  her  clam  chowder.  That  carpenter  feller  would 
have  had  me  hung  for  a  spy  in  ten  minutes  more.  I'm 
real  glad  to  see  you,  Colonel — Colonel  Wood.  That's  your 
name,  if  I  recollect  right." 

"Not  exactly.  My  name  is  Grover,  and  I'm  not  a 
colonel,  worse  luck,  only  a  major." 

"Sho !  Grover,  eh  ?  Now  how  in  the  nation  did  I  get  it 
Wood?  Oh,  yes,  I  cal'late  'twas  mixin'  up  groves  and 
woods.  Tut,  tut!  Wonder  I  didn't  call  you  Tines'  or 
'Bushes'  or  somethin'.  .  .  .  But  there,  sit  down,  sit  down. 
I'm  awful  glad  you  dropped  in.  I'd  about  given  up  hopin' 
you  would." 

He  brought  forward  a  chair,  unceremoniously  dumping 
two  stacks  of  carefully  sorted  and  counted  vanes  and 
sailors  from  its  seat  to  the  floor  prior  to  doing  so.  Major 
Grover  declined  to  sit. 

"I  should  like  to,  but  I  mustn't,"  he  said.  "And  I 
shouldn't  claim  credit  for  deliberately  making  you  a  social 
call.  I  came — that  is,  I  was  sent  here  on  a  matter  of — er 
— well,  first  aid  to  the  injured.  I  came  to  see  if  you  would 
lend  me  a  crank." 

Jed  looked  at  him.     "A — a  what  ?"  he  asked. 

"A  crank,  a  crank  for  my  car.  I  motored  over  from  the 
camp  and  stopped  at  the  telegraph  office.  When  I  came 
out  my  car  refused  to  go;  the  self-starter  appears  to  have 
gone  on  a  strike.  I  had  left  my  crank  at  the  camp  and  my 
only  hope  seemed  to  be  to  buy  or  borrow  one  somewhere. 
I  asked  the  two  or  three  fellows  standing  about  the  tele 
graph  office  where  I  might  be  likely  to  find  one.  No  one 
seemed  to  know,  but  just  then  the  old  grouch — excuse  me, 
person  who  keeps  the  hardware  store  came  along." 


214  "SHAVINGS" 


"Eh?  Phin  Babbitt?  Little  man  with  the  stub  of  a 
paint  brush  growin'  on  his  chin?" 

"Yes,  that's  the  one.  I  asked  him  where  I  should  be 
likely  to  find  a  crank.  He  said  if  I  came  across  to  this 
shop  I  ought  to  find  one." 

"He  did,  eh?  ...  Hum!" 

"Yes,  he  did.     So  I  came." 

"Hum  I" 

This  observation  being  neither  satisfying  nor  particularly 
illuminating,  Major  Grover  waited  for  something  more  ex 
plicit.  He  waited  in  vain;  Mr.  Winslow,  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  toe  of  his  visitor's  military  boot,  appeared  to  be 
mesmerized. 

"So  I  came,"  Treated  the  major,  after  an  interval. 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  yes.  So  you  did,  so  you  did.  .  .  . 
Hum !" 

He  rose  and,  walking  to  the  window,  peeped  about  the 
edge  of  the  shade  across  and  down  the  road  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  telegraph  office. 

"Phineas,"  he  drawled,  musingly,  "and  Squealer  and 
Lute  Small  and  Bluey.  Hu-u-m !  .  .  .  Yes,  yes." 

He  turned  away  from  the  window  and  began  intoning  a 
hymn.  Major  Grover  seemed  to  be  divided  between  a 
desire  to  laugh  and  a  tendency  toward  losing  patience. 

"Well,"  he  queried,  after  another  interval,  "about  that 
crank?  Have  you  one  I  might  borrow?  It  may  not  fit, 
probably  won't,  but  I  should  like  to  try  it." 

Jed  sighed.  "There's  a  crank  here,"  he  drawled,  "but 
it  wouldn't  be  much  use  around  automobiles,  I'm  afraid. 
I'm  it" 

"What?    I  don't  understand." 

"I  say  I'm  it.  My  pet  name  around  Orham  is  town 
crank.  That's  why  Phineas  sent  you  to  my  shop.  He  said 


"SHAVINGS"  215 


you  ought  to  find  a  crank  here.  He  was  right,  I'm  'most 
generally  in." 

This  statement  was  made  quietly,  deliberately  and  with 
no  trace  of  resentment.  Having  made  it,  the  speaker  be 
gan  picking  up  the  vanes  and  sailors  he  had  spilled  when 
he  proffered  his  visitor  the  chair.  Major  Grover  colored, 
and  frowned. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  demanded,  "that  that  fel 
low  sent  me  over  here  because — because " 

"Because  I'm  town  crank  ?    Ye-es,  that's  what  I  mean." 

"Indeed!     That  is  his  idea  of  a  joke,  is  it?" 

"Seems  to  be.  He's  an  awful  comical  critter,  Phin 
Babbitt  is — in  his  own  way." 

"Well,  it's  not  my  way.  He  sends  me  over  here  to  make 
an  ass  of  myself  and  insult  you " 

"Now,  now,  Major,  excuse  me.  Phin  didn't  have  any 
idea  that  you'd  insult  me.  You  see,"  with  the  fleeting 
smile,  "he  wouldn't  believe  anybody  could  do  that." 

Grover  turned  sharply  to  the  door.  Mr.  Winslow  spoke 
his  name. 

"Er — Major  Grover,"  he  said,  gently,  "I  wouldn't." 

The  major   paused.     "Wouldn't  what?"   he   demanded. 

"Go  over  there  and  tell  Phin  and  the  rest  what  you  think 
of  'em.  If  'twould  do  'em  any  good  I'd  say,  'For  mercy 
sakes,  go!'  But  'twouldn't;  they  wouldn't  believe  it." 

Grover's  lips  tightened. 

"Telling  it  might  do  me  some  good,"  he  observed,  signifi 
cantly. 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  maybe  we  might  get  the  same  good 
or  more  in  a  different  way.  .  .  .  Hum!  .  .  .  What — er — 
brand  of  automobile  is  yours?" 

The  major  told  him.     Jed  nodded. 

"Hum  .  .  .  yes,"  he  drawled.     "I  see.  ...  I  see." 

Grover  laughed.     "I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do !"  he  observed. 


216  "SHAVINGS" 


"Eh !  .  .  .  Well,  I  tell  you ;  you  sit  down  and  let  Babbie 
talk  Petunia  to  you  a  minute  or  two.  I'll  be  right  back." 

He  hurried  into  the  back  shop,  closing  the  door  after  him. 
A  moment  later  Grover  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  crossing 
the  back  yard  and  disappearing  over  the  edge  of  the  bluff. 

"Where  in  the  world  has  the  fellow  gone?"  he  solilo 
quized  aloud,  amused  although  impatient.  Barbara  took 
it  upon  herself  to  answer.  Uncle  Jed  had  left  the  caller  in 
her  charge  and  she  felt  her  responsibilities. 

"He's  gone  down  the  shore  path,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
know  where  else  he's  gone,  but  it's  all  right,  anyway." 

"Oh,  is  it?     You  seem  quite  sure  of  it,  young  lady." 

"I  am.  Everything  Uncle  Jed  does  is  right.  Sometimes 
you  don't  think  so  at  first,  but  it  turns  out  that  way. 
Mamma  says  he  is  petunia — no,  I  mean  peculiar  but — but 
very — re-li-a-ble,"  the  last  word  conquered  after  a  visible 
struggle.  "She  says  if  you  do  what  he  tells  you  to  you 
will  be  'most  always  glad.  /  think  'always'  without  any 
'most/  "  she  added. 

Major  Grover  laughed.  "That's  a  reputation  for  in 
fallibility  worth  having,"  he  observed. 

Barbara  did  not  know  what  he  meant  but  she  had  no 
intention  of  betraying  that  fact. 

"Yes,"  she  agreed.  A  moment  later  she  suggested: 
"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  sit  down?  He  told  you  to, 
you  know." 

"Great  Scott,  so  he  did !  I  must  obey  orders,  mustn't  I  ? 
But  he  told  you  to  talk — something  or  other  to  me,  I  think. 
What  was  it?" 

"He  told  me  to  talk  Petunia  to  you.  There  she  is — up 
there." 

The  major  regarded  Petunia,  who  was  seated  upon  the 
heap  of  mill-sides,  in  a  most  haphazard  and  dissipated  atti 
tude. 


"SHAVINGS"  217 


"She  is  my  oldest  daughter,"  continued  Barbara.  "She's 
very  advanced  for  her  years." 

"Dear  me !" 

"Yes.     And  .  .  .  oh,  here  comes  Mamma!" 

Mrs.  Armstrong  entered  the  shop.  The  major  rose.  Bar 
bara  did  the  honors. 

"I  was  just  going  to  come  in,  Mamma,"  she  explained, 
"but  Uncle  Jed  asked  me  to  stay  and  talk  to  Mr. — I  mean 
Major — Grover  till  he  came  back.  He's  gone  out,  but  he 
won't  be  long.  Mamma,  this  is  Mr.  Major  Grover,  the  one 
who  kept  Uncle  Jed  from  being  spied,  over  at  the  flying 
place  that  day  when  I  found  the  plan  paper  and  he  made 
a  shingk  boat  sail  out  of  it.". 

Ruth  came  forward.  She  had  been  walking  along  the 
edge  of  the  bluff,  looking  out  over  the  tumbled  gray  and 
white  water,  and  the  late  October  wind  had  tossed  her  hair 
and  brought  the  color  to  her  cheeks.  She  put  out  her  hand. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said.  "How  do  you  do,  Major  Grover? 
I  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  you  since  the  day  of  Bab 
bie's  picnic.  I'm  sure  I  owe  you  an  apology  for  the  trouble 
my  small  daughter  must  have  caused  that  day." 

She  and  the  major  shook  hands.  The  latter  expressed 
himself  as  being  very  glad  to  meet  Mrs.  Armstrong.  He 
looked  as  if  he  meant  it. 

"And  no  apologies  are  due,  not  from  your  side  at  least," 
he  declared.  "If  it  had  not  been  for  your  little  girl  our 
missing  plan  might  have  been  missing  yet." 

Fifteen  minutes  elapsed  before  the  owner  of  the  windmill 
shop  returned.  When  he  did  come  hurrying  up  the  bluff 
and  in  at  the  back  door,  heated  and  out  of  breath,  no  one 
seemed  to  have  missed  him  greatly.  Major  Grover,  who 
might  reasonably  have  been  expected  to  show  some  irrita 
tion  at  his  long  wait,  appeared  quite  oblivious  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  waited  at  all.  He  and  Barbara  were  seated 


218  "SHAVINGS" 


side  by  side  upon  a  packing  case,  while  Ruth  occupied  the 
chair.  When  Jed  came  panting  in  it  was  Babbie  who 
greeted  him. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Jed!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  just  ought  to  have 
been  here.  Mr. — I  mean  Major  Grover  has  been  telling 
Mamma  and  me  about  going  up  in  a — in  a  diggible  balloon. 
It  was  awf'ly  interesting.  Wasn't  it,  Mamma?" 

Her  mother  laughingly  agreed  that  it  was.  Jed,  whose 
hands  were  full,  deposited  his  burden  upon  another  pack 
ing  case.  The  said  burden  consisted  of  no  less  than  three 
motor  car  cranks.  Grover  regarded  them  with  surprise. 

"Where  in  the  world  did  you  get  those?"  he  demanded. 
"The  last  I  saw  of  you  you  were  disappearing  over  that 
bank,  apparently  headed  out  to  sea.  Do  you  dig  those 
things  up  on  the  flats  hereabouts,  like  clams?" 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin.  "Not's  I  know  of,"  he  replied.  "I 
borrowed  these  down  at  Joshua  Rogers'  garage." 

"Rogers'  garage?"  repeated  Grover.  "That  isn't  near 
here,  is  it?" 

"It  is  an  eighth  of  a  mile  from  here,"  declared  Ruth. 
"And  not  down  by  the  beach,  either.  What  do  you  mean, 
Jed?" 

Jed  was  standing  by  the  front  window,  peeping  out. 
"Um-hm,"  he  said,  musingly,  "they're  still  there,  the  whole 
lot  of  'em,  waitin'  for  you  to  come  out,  Major.  .  .  .  Hum 
.  .  .  dear,  dear!  And  they're  all  doubled  up  now  laughin' 
ahead  of  time.  .  .  .  Dear,  dear!  this  is  a  world  of  dis 
appointment,  sure  enough." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  demanded  Major  Grover. 

"Jed I"  exclaimed  Ruth. 

Barbara  said  nothing.  She  was  accustomed  to  her  Uncle 
Jed's  vagaries  and  knew  that,  in  his  own  good  time,  an 
explanation  would  be  forthcoming.  It  came  now. 

"Why,  you  see,"  said  Jed,  "Phin  Babbitt  and  the  rest 


"SHAVINGS"  219- 


sendin'  you  over  here  to  find  a  crank  was  their  little  joke. 
They're  enjoyin'  it  now.  The  one  thing  needed  to  make 
'em  happy  for  life  is  to  see  you  come  out  of  here  empty- 
handed  and  so  b'ilin'  mad  that  you  froth  over.  If  you 
come  out  smilin'  and  with  what  you  came  after,  why — 
why,  then  the  cream  of  their  joke  has  turned  a  little  sour, 
as  you  might  say.  See?" 

Grover  laughed.  "Yes,  I  see  that  plain  enough,"  he 
agreed.  "And  I'm  certainly  obliged  to  you.  I  owed  those 
fellows  one.  But  what  I  don't  see  is  how  you  got  those 
cranks  by  going  down  to  the  seashore." 

"W-e-e-11,  if  I'd  gone  straight  up  the  road  to  Rogers's  our 
jokin'  friends  would  have  known  that's  where  the  cranks 
came  from.  I  wanted  'em  to  think  they  came  from  right 
here.  So  I  went  over  the  bank  back  of  the  shop,  where 
they  couldn't  see  me,  along  the  beach  till  I  got  abreast  of 
Joshua's  and  then  up  across  lots.  I  came  back  the  way 
I  went.  I  hope  those  things  '11  fit,  Major.  One  of  'em 
will,  I  guess  likely." 

The  major  laughed  again.  "I  certainly  am  obliged  to 
you,  Mr.  Winslow,"  he  said.  "And  I  must  say  you  took  a 
lot  of  trouble  on  my  account." 

Jed  sighed,  although  there  was  a  little  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"  'Twan't  altogether  on  your  account,"  he  drawled.  "/ 
owed  'em  one,  same  as  you  did.  I  was  the  crank  they  sent 
you  to." 

Their  visitor  bade  Barbara  and  her  mother  good  after 
noon,  gathered  up  his  cranks  and  turned  to  the  door. 

"I'll  step  over  and  start  the  car,"  he  said.  "Then  I'll 
come  back  and  return  these  things." 

Jed  shook  his  head.  "I  wouldn't,"  he  said.  "You  may 
stop  again  before  you  get  back  to  Bayport.  Rogers  is  in  no 
hurry  for  'em,  he  said  so.  You  take  'em  along  and  fetch 
'em  in  next  time  you're  over.  I  want  you  to  call  again  any- 


220  "SHAVINGS" 


how  and  these  cranks  '11  make  a  good  excuse  for  doin'  it," 
he  added. 

"Oh,  I  see.  Yes,  so  they  will.  With  that  understand 
ing  I'll  take  them  along.  Thanks  again  and  good  after 
noon." 

He  hastened  across  the  street.  The  two  in  the  shop 
watched  from  the  window  until  the  car  started  and  moved 
out  of  sight.  The  group  by  the  telegraph  office  seemed 
excited  about  something;  they  laughed  no  longer  and  there 
was  considerable  noisy  argument. 

Jed's  lip  twitched.  "  'The  best  laid  plans  of  mice — and 
skunks,'"  he  quoted,  solemnly.  "Hm!  .  .  .  That  Major 
Grover  seems  like  a  good  sort  of  chap." 

"I  think  he's  awful  nice,"  declared  Babbie. 

Ruth  said  nothing. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

OCTOBER  passed  and  November  came.  The  very 
last  of  the  summer  cottages  were  closed.  Orham 
settled  down  for  its  regular  winter  hibernation. 
This  year  it  was  a  bit  less  of  a  nap  than  usual  because  of 
the  activity  at  the  aviation  camp  at  East  Harniss.  The 
swarm  of  carpenters,  plumbers  and  mechanics  was  larger 
than  ever  there  now  and  the  buildings  were  hastening  to 
ward  completion,  for  the  first  allotment  of  aviators,  sol 
diers  and  recruits  was  due  to  arrive  in  March.  Major 
Grover  was  a  busy  and  a  worried  man,  but  he  usually 
found  time  to  drop  in  at  the  windmill  shop  for  a  moment 
or  two  on  each  of  his  brief  motor  trips  to  Orham.  Some 
times  he  found  Jed  alone,  more  often  Barbara  was  there 
also,  and,  semi-occasionally,  Ruth.  The  major  and  Charles 
Phillips  met  and  appeared  to  like  each  other.  Charles  was 
still  on  the  rising  tide  of  local  popularity.  Even  Gabe 
Bearse  had  a  good  word  to  say  for  him  among  the  many 
which  he  said  concerning  him.  Phineas  Babbitt,  however, 
continued  to  express  dislike,  or,  at  the  most,  indifference. 

"I'm  too  old  a  bird,"  declared  the  vindictive  little  hard 
ware  dealer,  "to  bow  down  afore  a  slick  tongue  and  a  good- 
lookin'  figgerhead.  He's  one  of  Sam  Hunniwell's  pets  and 
that's  enough  for  me.  Anybody  that  ties  up  to  Sam  Hunni- 
well  must  have  a  rotten  plank  in  'em  somewheres;  give  it 
time  and  'twill  come  out." 

Charles  and  Jed  Winslow  were  by  this  time  good  friends. 
The  young  man  usually  spent  at  least  a  few  minutes  of 
each  day  chatting  with  his  eccentric  neighbor.  They  were 

221 


222  "SHAVINGS" 


becoming  more  intimate,  at  times  almost  confidential,  al 
though  Phillips,  like  every  other  friend  or  acquaintance 
of  "Shavings"  Winslow,  was  inclined  to  patronize  or  con 
descend  a  bit  ir  his  relations  with  the  latter.  No  one  took 
the  windmill  maker  altogether  seriously,  not  even  Ruth 
Armstrong,  although  she  perhaps  came  nearest  to  doing 
so.  Charles  would  drop  in  at  the  shop  of  a  morning,  in 
the  interval  between  breakfast  and  bank  opening,  and, 
perching  on  a  pile  of  stock,  or  the  workbench,  would  dis 
cuss  various  things.  He  and  Jed  were  alike  in  one  char 
acteristic — each  had  the  habit  of  absent-mindedness  and 
lapsing  into  silence  in  the  middle  of  a  conversation.  Jed's 
lapses,  of  course,  were  likely  to  occur  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence,  even  in  the  middle  of  a  word;  with  the  younger 
man  the  symptoms  were  not  so  acute. 

"Well,  Charlie,"  observed  Mr.  Winslow,  on  one  occasion, 
a  raw  November  morning  of  the  week  before  Thanks 
giving,  "how's  the  bank  gettin'  along?" 

Charles  was  a  bit  more  silent  that  morning  than  he  had 
been  of  late.  He  appeared  to  be  somewhat  reflective,  even 
somber.  Jed,  on  the  lookout  for  just  such  symptoms,  was 
trying  to  cheer  him  up. 

"Oh,  all  right  enough,  I  guess,"  was  the  reply. 

"Like  your  work  as  well  as  ever,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes — oh,  yes,  I  like  it,  what  there  is  of  it.  It  isn't  what 
you'd  call  strenuous." 

"No,  I  presume  likely  not,  but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
they  gave  you  somethin'  more  responsible  some  of  these 
days.  They  know  you're  up  to  doin'  it ;  Cap'n  Sam's  told 
me  so  more'n  once." 

Here  occurred  one  of  the  lapses  just  mentioned.  Phil 
lips  said  nothing  for  a  minute  or  more.  Then  he  asked: 
"What  sort  of  a  man  is  Captain  Hunniwell?" 

"Eh?     What  sort  of  a  man?    You  ought  to  know  him 


'SHAVINGS"  223 


yourself  pretty  well  by  this  time.  You  see  more  of  him 
every  day  than  I  do." 

"I  don't  mean  as  a  business  man  or  anything  like  that. 
I  mean  what  sort  of  man  is  he — er — inside?  Is  he  always 
as  good-natured  as  he  seems?  How  is  he  around  his  own 
house?  With  his  daughter — or — or  things  like  that? 
You've  known  him  all  your  life,  you  know,  and  I  haven't." 

"Um — ye-es — yes,  I've  known  Sam  for  a  good  many 
years.  He's  square  all  through,  Sam  is.  Honest  as  the 
day  is  long  and — 

Charles  stirred  uneasily.  "I  know  that,  of  course,"  he 
interrupted.  "I  wasn't  questioning  his  honesty." 

Jed's  tender  conscience  registered  a  pang.  The  reference 
to  honesty  had  not  been  made  with  any  ulterior  motive. 

"Sartin,  sartin,"  he  said;  "I  know  you  wasn't,  Charlie, 
course  I  know  that.  You  wanted  to  know  what  sort  of 
a  man  Sam  was  in  his  family  and  such,  I  judge.  Well, 
he's  a  mighty  good  father — almost  too  good,  I  suppose 
likely  some  folks  would  say.  He  just  bows  down  and  wor 
ships  that  daughter  of  his.  Anything  Maud  wants  that  he 
can  give  her  she  can  have.  And  she  wants  a  good  deal, 
I  will  give  in,"  he  added,  with  his  quiet  drawl. 

His  caller  did  not  speak.  Jed  whistled  a  xew  mournful 
bars  and  sharpened  a  chisel  on  an  oilstone. 

"If  John  D.  Vanderbilt  should  come  around  courtin' 
Maud,"  he  went  on,  after  a  moment,  "I  don't  know  as  Sam 
would  cal'late  he  was  good  enough  for  her.  Anyhow  he'd 
feel  that  'twas  her  that  was  doin'  the  favor,  not  John  D. 
.  .  .  And  I;.guess  he'd  be  right;  I  don't  know  any  Vander- 
bilts,  but  I've  known  Maud  since  she  was  a  baby.  She's 


He  paused,  inspecting  a  nick  in  the  chisel  edge.     Again 
Phillips  shifted  in  his  seat  on  the  edge  of  the  workbench. 
"Well?"  he  asked. 


224  "SHAVINGS" 


"Eh?"  Jed  looked  up  in  mild  inquiry.  "What  is  it?" 
he  said. 

"That's  what  I  want  to  know — what  is  it?  You  were 
talking  about  Maud  Hunniwell.  You  said  you  had  known 
her  since  she  was  a  baby  and  that  she  was — something  or 
other;  that  was  as  far  as  you  got." 

"Sho!  .  .  .  Hum.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  yes;  I  was  goin'  to  say 
she  was  a  mighty  nice  girl,  as  nice  as  she  is  good-lookin'  and 
lively.  There's  a  dozen  young  chaps  in  this  county  crazy 
about  her  this  minute,  but  there  ain't  any  one  of  'em  good 
enough  for  her.  .  .  .  Hello,  you  goin'  so  soon?  'Tisn't 
half-past  nine  yet,  is  it?" 

Phillips  did  not  answer.  His  somber  expression  was  still 
in  evidence.  Jed  would  have  liked  to  cheer  him  up,  but 
he  did  not  know  how.  However  he  made  an  attempt  by 
changing  the  subject. 

"How  is  Babbie  this  mornin'  ?"  he  asked. 

"She's  as  lively  as  a  cricket,  of  course.  And  full  of  ex 
citement.  She's  going  to  school  next  Monday,  you  know. 
You'll  rather  miss  her  about  the  shop  here,  won't  you?" 

"Miss  her!  My  land  of  Goshen!  I  shouldn't  be  sur 
prised  if  I  follered  her  to  school  myself,  like  Mary's  little 
lamb.  Miss  i.er !  Don't  talk !" 

"Well,  so  long.  .  .  .  What  is  it  ?" 

"Eh?" 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  say?  You  look  as  if  you  wanted 
to  say  something." 

"Do  I?  ...  Hum.  .  .  .  Oh,  'twasn't  anything  special. 
.  .  .  How's — er — how's  your  sister  this  mornin'?" 

"Oh,  she's  well.  I  haven't  seen  her  so  well  since — that 
is,  for  a  long  time.  You've  made  a  great  hit  with  Sis, 
Jed,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh.  "She  can't  say  enough  good 
things  about  you.  Says  you  are  her  one  dependable  in 
Orham,  or  something  like  that." 


"SHAVINGS"  225 


Jed's  face  turned  a  bright  red.  "Oh,  sho,  sho !"  he  pro 
tested,  "she  mustn't  talk  that  way.  I  haven't  done  any 
thing." 

"She  says  you  have.     Well,  by-by." 

He  went  away.  It  was  some  time  before  Jed  resumed 
his  chisel-sharpening. 

Later,  when  he  came  to  reflect  upon  his  conversation 
with  young  Phillips  there  were  one  or  two  things  about 
it  which  puzzled  him.  They  were  still  puzzling  him  when 
Maud  Hunniwell  came  into  the  shop.  Maud,  in  a  new  fall 
suit,  hat  and  fur,  was  a  picture,  a  fact  of  which  she  was  as 
well  aware  as  the  next  person.  Jed,  as  always,  was  very 
glad  to  see  her.. 

"Well,  well!"  he  exclaimed.  "Talk  about  angels  and — 
and  they  fly  in,  so  to  speak.  Real  glad  to  see  you,  Maud. 
Sit  down,  sit  down.  There's  a  chair  'round  here  some- 

wheres.  Now  where ?  Oh,  yes,  I'm  sittin'  in  it.  Hum! 

That's  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  didn't  see  it,  I  presume 
likely.  You  take  it  and  I'll  fetch  another  from  the  kitchen. 
No,  I  won't,  I'll  sit  on  the  bench.  .  .  .  Hum  .  .  .  has  your 
pa  got  any  money  left  in  that  bank  of  his?" 

Miss  Hunniwell  was,  naturally,  surprised  at  the  question. 

"Why,  I  hope  so,"  she  said.     "Did  you  think  he  hadn't?" 

"W-e-e-11,  I  didn't  know.  That  dress  of  yours,  and  that 
new  bonnet,  must  have  used  up  consider'ble,  to  say  nothin' 
of  that  woodchuck  you've  got  'round  your  neck.  'Tis  a 
woodchuck,  ain't  it  ?"  he  added,  solemnly. 

"Woodchuck!  Well,  I  like  that!  If  you  knew  what  a 
silver  fox  costs  and  how  long  I  had  to  coax  before  I  got 
this  one  you  would  be  more  careful  in  your  language,"  she 
declared,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

Jed  sighed.  "That's  the  trouble  with  me,"  he  observed. 
"I  never  know  enough  to  pick  out  the  right  things — or 
folks — to  be  careful  with.  If  I  set  out  to  be  real  toady  and 


226 


humble  to  what  I  think  is  a  peacock  it  generally  turns  out 
to  be  a  Shanghai  rooster.  And  the  same  when  it's  t'other 
way  about.  It's  a  great  gift  to  be  able  to  tell  the  real — er 
— what  is  it  ? — gold  foxes  from  the  woodchucks  in  this  life. 
I  ain't  got  it  and  that's  one  of  the  two  hundred  thousand 
reasons  why  I  ain't  rich." 

He  began  to  hum  one  of  his  doleful  melodies.  Maud 
laughed. 

"Mercy,  what  a  long  sermon !"  she  exclaimed.  "No  won 
der  you  sing  a  hymn  after  it." 

Jed  sniffed.  "Um  .  .  .  ye-es,"  he  drawled.  "If  I  was 
more  worldly-minded  I'd  take  up  a  collection,  probably. 
Well,  how's  all  the  United  States  Army ;  the  gold  lace  part 
of  it,  I-  mean  ?" 

His  visitor  laughed  again.  "Those  that  I  know  seem  to 
be  very  well  and  happy,"  she  replied. 

"Um  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  sartin.  They'd  be  happy,  naturally. 
How  could  they  help  it,  under  the  circumstances  ?" 

He  began  picking  over  an  assortment  of  small  hardware, 
varying  his  musical  accompaniment  by  whistling  instead  of 
singing.  His  visitor  looked  at  him  rather  oddly. 

"Jed,"  she  observed,  "you're  changed." 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Changed?  I  ain't  changed  my  clothes,  if 
that's  what  you  mean.  Course  if  I'd  know  I  was  goin'  to 
have  bankers'  daughters  with  gold — er — muskrats  'round 
their  necks  come  to  see  me  I'd  have  dressed  up." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  your  clothes.  I  mean  you — yourself 
— you've  changed." 

"I've  changed  !     How,  for  mercy  sakes  ?" 

"Oh,  lots  of  ways.  You  pay  the  ladies  compliments  now. 
You  wouldn't  have  done  that  a  year  ago." 

"Eh?  Pay  compliments?  I'm  afraid  you're  mistaken. 
Your  pa  says  I'm  so  absent-minded  and  forgetful  that  I 
don't  pay  some  of  my  bills  till  the  folks  I  owe  'em  to  make 


"SHAVINGS"  227 


proclamations  they're  goin'  to  sue  me;  and  other  bills  I 
pay  two  or  three  times  over." 

"Don't  try  to  escape  by  dodging  the  subject.  You  have 
changed  in  the  last  few  months.  I  think,"  holding  the  tail 
of  the  silver  fox  before  her  face  and  regarding  him  over 
it,  "I  think  you  must  be  in  love." 

"Eh?"    Jed  looked  positively  frightened.     "In  love!" 

"Yes.     You're  blushing  now." 

"Now,  now,  Maud,  that  ain't — that's  sunburn." 

"No,  it's  not  sunburn.  Who  is  it,  Jed?"  mischiev 
ously.  "Is  it  the  pretty  widow?  Is  it  Mrs.  Armstrong?" 

A  good  handful  of  the  hardware  fell  to  the  floor.  Jed 
thankfully  scrambled  down  to  pick  it  up.  Miss  Hunniwell, 
expressing  contrition  at  being  indirectly  responsible  for  the 
mishap,  offered  to  help  him.  He  declined,  of  course,  but 
in  the  little  argument  which  followed  the  dangerous  and 
embarrassing  topic  was  forgotten.  It  was  not  until  she 
was  about  to  leave  the  shop  that  Maud  again  mentioned  the 
Armstrong  name.  And  then,  oddly  enough,  it  was  she,  not 
Mr.  Winslow,  who  showed  embarrassment. 

"Jed,"  she  said,  "what  do  you  suppose  I  came  here  for 
this  morning?" 

Jed's  reply  was  surprisingly  prompt. 

"To  show  your  new  rig-out,  of  course,"  he  said.  "  'Van 
ity  of  vanities,  all  is  vanity.'  There,  now  I  can  take  up  a 
collection,  can't  I?" 

His  visitor  pouted.  "If  you  do  I  shan't  put  anything  in 
the  box,"  she  declared.  "The  idea  of  thinking  that  I  came 
here  just  to  show  off  my  new  things.  I've  a  good  mind  not 
to  invite  you  at  all  now." 

She  doubtless  expected  apologies  and  questions  as  to 
what  invitation  was  meant.  They  might  have  been  forth 
coming  had  not  the  windmill  maker  been  engaged  just  at 
that  moment  in  gazing  abstractedly  at  the  door  of  the  lit- 


228  "SHAVINGS" 


tie  stove  which  heated,  or  was  intended  to  heat,  the  work 
shop.  He  did  not  appear  to  have  heard  her  remark,  so 
the  young  lady  repeated  it.  Still  he  paid  no  attention. 
Miss  Maud,  having  inherited  a  goodly  share  of  the  Hun- 
niwell  disposition,  demanded  an  explanation. 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  you?"  she  asked. 
"Why  are  you  staring  at  that  stove  ?" 

Jed  started  and  came  to  life.  "Eh?"  he  exclaimed.  "Oh, 
I  was  thinkin'  what  an  everlastin'  nuisance  'twas — the  stove, 
I  mean.  It  needs  more  wood  about  every  five  minutes  in 
the  day,  seems  to — needs  it  now,  that's  what  made  me 
think  of  it.  I  was  just  wonderin'  if  'twouldn't  be  a  good 
notion  to  set  it  up  out  in  the  yard." 

"Out  in  the  yard?  Put  the  stove  out  in  the  yard?  For 
goodness'  sake,  what  for?" 

Jed  clasped  his  knee  in  his  hand  and  swung  his  foot  back 
and  forth. 

"Oh,"  he  drawled,  "if  'twas  out  in  the  yard  I  shouldn't 
know  whether  it  needed  wood  or  not,  so  'twouldn't  be  all 
the  time  botherin'  me." 

However,  he  rose  and  replenished  the  stove.  Miss  Hun- 
niwell  laughed.  Then  she  said:  "Jed,  you  don't  de 
serve  it,  because  you  didn't  hear  me  when  I  first  dropped 
the  hint,  but  I  came  here  with  an  invitation  for  you.  Pa 
and  I  expect  you  to  eat  your  Thanksgiving  dinner  with  us." 

If  she  had  asked  him  to  eat  it  in  jail  Jed  could  not  have 
been  more  disturbed. 

"Now — now,  Maud,"  he  stammered,  "I — I'm  ever  so 
much  obliged  to  you,  but  I — I  don't  see  how ' 

"Nonsense !  I  see  how  perfectly  well.  You  always  act 
just  this  way  whenever  I  invite  you  to  anything.  You're 
not  afraid  of  Pa  or  me,  are  you?" 

"W-e-e-11,  well,  I  ain't  afraid  of  your  Pa  's  I  know  of,  but 
of  course,  when  such  a  fascinatin'  young  woman  as  you 


'SHAVINGS"  229 


comes  along,  al!  rigged  up  to  kill,  why,  it's  natural  that  a£> 
old  single  relic  like  me  should  get  kind  of  nervous." 

Maud  clasped  her  hands.  "Oh,"  she  cried,  "there's  an-- 
other  compliment !  You  have  changed,  Jed.  I'm  going  to 
ask  Father  what  it  means." 

This  time  Jed  was  really  alarmed.  "Now,  now,  now," 
he  protested,  "don't  go  tell  your  Pa  yarns  about  me.  He'll 
come  in  here  and  pester  me  to  death.  You  know  what  a 
tease  he  is  when  he  gets  started.  Don't,  Maud,  don't." 

She  looked  hugely  delighted  at  the  prospect.  Her  eyes 
sparkled  with  mischief.  "I  certainly  shall  tell  him,"  she 
declared,  "unless  you  promise  to  eat  with  us  on  Thanksgiv 
ing  Day.  Oh,  come  along,  don't  be  so  silly.  You've  eaten 
at  our  house  hundreds  of  times." 

This  was  a  slight  exaggeration.  Jed  had  eaten  there  pos 
sibly  five  times  in  the  last  five  years.  He  hesitated. 

"Ain't  goin'  to  be  any  other  company,  is  there  ?"  he  asked, 
after  a  moment.  It  was  now  that  Maud  showed  her  first 
symptoms  of  embarrassment. 

"Why,"  she  said,  twirling  the  fox  tail  and  looking  at  the 
floor,  "there  may  be  one  or  two  more.  I  thought — I  mean 
Pa  and  I  thought  perhaps  we  might  invite  Mrs.  Armstrong 
and  Babbie.  You  know  them,  Jed,  so  they  won't  be 
like  strangers.  And  Pa  thinks  Mrs.  Armstrong  is  a  very 
nice  lady,  a  real  addition  to  the  town;  I've  heard  him  say 
so  often,"  she  added,  earnestly. 

Jed  was  silent.  She  looked  up  at  him  from  under  the 
brim  of  the  new  hat. 

"You  wouldn't  mind  them,  Jed,  would  you?"  she 
asked.  "They  wouldn't  be  like  strangers,  you  know." 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin.  "I — I  don't  know's  I  would,"  he 
mused,  "always  providin'  they  didn't  mind  me.  But  I  don't 
cal'late  Mrs.  Ruth — Mrs.  Armstrong,  I  mean — would  want 
to  leave  Charlie  to  home  alone  on  Thanksgivin'  Day.  If 


23o  "SHAVINGS" 


she  took  Babbie,  you  know,  there  wouldn't  be  anybody 
left  to  keep  him  company." 

Miss  Hunniwell  twirled  the  fox  tail  in  an  opposite  di 
rection.  "Oh,  of  course,"  she  said,  with  elaborate  care 
lessness,  "we  should  invite  Mrs.  Armstrong's  brother  if 
we  invited  her.  Of  course  we  should  have  to  do  that." 

Jed  nodded,  but  he  made  no  comment.  His  visitor 
watched  him  from  beneath  the  hat  brim. 

"You — you  haven't  any  objection  to  Mr.  Phillips,  have 
you?"  she  queried. 

"Eh?     Objections?    To  Charlie?    Oh,  no,  no." 

"You  like  him,  don't  you  ?     Father  likes  him  very  much." 

"Yes,  indeed  :  :ike  him  fust-rate.  All  hands  like  Charlie, 
the  women- folks  especially." 

There  was  a  perceptible  interval  before  Miss  Hunniwell 
spoke  again.  "What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  she  asked. 

"Eh?  Oh,  nothin',  except  that,  accordin'  to  your  dad, 
he's  a  'specially  good  hand  at  waitin'  on  the  women  and 
girfs  up  at  the  bank,  polite  and  nice  to  'em,  you  know.  He's 
even  made  a  hit  with  old  Melissy  Busteed,  and  it  takes  a 
regular  feller  to  do  that." 

He  would  not  promise  to  appear  at  the  Hunniwell  home 
on  Thanksgiving,  but  he  did  agree  to  think  it  over.  Maud 
had  to  be  content  with  that.  However,  she  declared  that 
she  should  take  his  acceptance  for  granted. 

"We  shall  set  a  place  for  you,"  she  said.  "Of  course 
you'll  come.  It  will  be  such  a  nice  party,  you  and  Pa  and 
Mrs.  Armstrong  and  I  and  little  Babbie.  Oh,  we'll  have 
great  fun,  see  if  we  don't." 

"And  Charlie;  you're  leavin'  out  Charlie,"  Jed  reminded 
her. 

"Oh,  yes,  so  I  was.  Well,  I  suppose  he'll  come,  too. 
Good-by." 

She  skipped  away,  waving  him  a  farewell  with  the'  tail 


"SHAVINGS'-  231 


of  the  silver  fox.  Jed,  gazing  after  her,  rubbed  his  chin 
reflectively. 

His  indecision  concerning  the  acceptance  of  the  Hunni- 
well  invitation  lasted  until  the  day  before  Thanksgiving. 
Then  Barbara  added  her  persuasions  to  those  of  Captain 
Sam  and  his  daughter  and  he  gave  in. 

"If  you  don't  go,  Uncle  Jed,"  asserted  Babbie,  "we're 
all  goin'  to  be  awfully  disappointed,  'specially  me  and  Pe 
tunia — and  Mamma — and  Uncle  Charlie." 

"Oh,  then  the  rest  of  you  folks  won't  care,  I  presume 
likely?" 

Babbie  thought  it  over.  "Why,  there  aren't  any  more 
of  us,"  she  said.  "Oh,  I  see!  You're  joking  again,  aren't 
you,  Uncle  Jed?  'Most  everybody  I  know  laughs  when 
they  make  jokes,  but  you  don't,  you  look  as  if  you  were 
going  to  cry.  That's  why  I  don't  laugh  sometimes  right 
off,"  she  explained,  politely.  "If  you  was  really  feeling 
so  bad  it  wouldn't  be  nice  to  laugh,  you  know." 

Jed  laughed  then,  himself.  "So  Petunia  would  feel  bad 
if  I  didn't  go  to  Sam's,  would  she?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,"  solemnly.  "She  told  me  she  shouldn't  eat  one 
single  thing  if  you  didn't  go.  She's  a  very  high-strung 
child." 

That  settled  it.  Jed  argued  that  Petunia  must  on  no 
account  be  strung  higher  than  she  was  and  consented  to 
dine  at  the  Hunniwells'. 

The  day  before  Thanksgiving  brought  another  visitor  to 
the  windmill  shop,  one  as  welcome  as  he  was  unexpected. 
Jed,  hearing  the  door  to  the  stock  room  open,  shouted 
"Come  in"  from  his  seat  at  the  workbench  in  the  inner 
room.  When  his  summons  was  obeyed  he  looked  up  to 
see  a  khaki-clad  figure  advancing  with  extended  hand. 

"Why,   hello,   Major!"   he   exclaimed.     "I'm   real   glad 


232  "SHAVINGS" 


to Eh,  'tain't  Major  Grover,  is  it?  Who Why, 

Leander  Babbitt !  Well,  well,  well !" 

Young  Babbitt  was  straight  and  square-shouldered  and 
brown.  Military  training  and  life  at  Camp  Devens  had 
wrought  the  miracle  in  his  case  which  it  works  in  so  many. 
Jed  found  it  hard  to  recognize  the  stoop-shouldered  son 
of  the  hardware  dealer  in  the  spruce  young  soldier  before 
him.  When  he  complimented  Leander  upon  the  improve 
ment  the  latter  disclaimed  any  credit. 

"Thank  the  drill  master  second  and  yourself  first,  Jed," 
he  said.  "They'll  make  a  man  of  a  fellow  up  there  at 
Ayer  if  he'll  give  'em  half  a  chance.  Probably  I  shouldn't 
have  had  the  chance  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you.  You  were 
the  one  who  really  put  me  up  to  enlisting." 

Jed  refused  to  listen.  "Can't  make  a  man  out  of  a  pun- 
kinhead,"  he  asserted.  "If  you  hadn't  had  tlie  right  stuff 
in  you,  Leander,  drill  masters  nor  nobody  else  could  have 
fetched  it  out.  How  do  you  like  belongin'  to  Uncle  Sam?" 

Young  Babbitt  liked  it  and  said  so.  "I  feel  as  if  I  were 
doing  something  at  last,"  he  said ;  "as  if  I  was  part  of  the 
biggest  thing  in  the  world.  Course  I'm  only  a  mighty  lit 
tle  part,  but,  after  all,  it's  something." 

Jed  nodded,  gravely.  "You  bet  it's  somethin',"  he  ar 
gued.  "It's  a  lot,  a  whole  lot.  I  only  wish  I  was  standin' 
alongside  of  you  in  the  ranks,  Leander.  ...  I'd  be  a  sight, 
though,  wouldn't  I?"  he  added,  his  lip  twitching  in  the 
fleeting  smile.  "What  do  you  think  the  Commodore,  or 
General,  or  whoever  'tis  bosses  things  at  the  camp,  would 
say  when  he  saw  me?  He'd  think  the  flagpole  had  grown 
feet,  and  was  walkin'  round,  I  cal'late." 

He  asked  his  young  friend  what  reception  he  met  with 
upon  his  return  home.  Leander  smiled  ruefully. 

"My  step-mother  seemed  glad  enough  to  see  me,"  he 
said.  "She  and  I  had  some  long  talks  on  the  subject  and 


'SHAVINGS"  233 


I  think  she  doesn't  blame  me  much  for  going  into  the  serv 
ice.  I  told  her  the  whole  story  c»nd,  down  in  her  heart,  I 
believe  she  thinks  I  did  right." 

Jed  nodded.  "Don't  see  how  she  could  help  it,"  he  said. 
"How  does  your  dad  take  it?" 

Leander  hesitated.  "Well,"  he  said,  "you  know  Father. 
He  doesn't  change  his  mind  easily.  He  and  I  didn't  get 
as  close  together  as  I  wish  we  could.  And  it  wasn't  my 
fault  that  we  didn't,"  he  added,  earnestly. 

Jed  understood.  He  had  known  Phineas  Babbitt  for 
many  years  and  he  knew  the  little  man's  hard,  implacable 
disposition  and  the  violence  of  his  prejudices. 

"Um-hm,"  he  said.  "All  the  same,  Leander,  I  believe 
your  father  thinks  more  of  you  than  he  does  of  anything 
else  on  earth." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  was  right,  Jed.  But  on  the 
other  hand  I'm  afraid  he  and  I  will  never  be  the  same  after 
I  come  back  from  the  war — always  providing  I  do  come 
back,  of  course." 

"Sshh,  sshh !  Don't  talk  that  way.  Course  you'll  come 
back." 

"You  never  can  tell.  However,  if  I  knew  I  wasn't  go 
ing  to,  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference  in  my  feelings  about 
going.  I'm  glad  I  enlisted  and  I'm  mighty  thankful  to  you 
for  backing  me  up  in  it.  I  shan't  forget  it,  Jed." 

"Sho,  sho !  It's  easy  to  tell  other  folks  what  to  do. 
That's  how  the  Kaiser  earns  his  salary;  only  he  gives  ad 
vice  to  the  Almighty,  and  I  ain't  got  as  far  along  as  that 
yet." 

They  discussed  the  war  in  general  and  by  sections.  Just 
before  he  left,  young  Babbitt  said: 

"Jed,  there  is  one  thing  that  worries  me  a  little  in  con 
nection  with  Father.  He  was  bitter  against  the  war  before 
we  went  into  it  and  before  he  and  Cap'n  Sam  Hunniwell 


234  "SHAVINGS" 


had  their  string  of  rows.  Since  then  and  since  I  enlisted 
he  has  been  worse  than  over.  The  things  he  says  against 
the  government  and  against  the  country  make  me  want  to 
lick  him — and  I'm  his  own  son.  I  am  really  scared  for 
fear  he'll  get  himself  jailed  for  being  a  traitor  or  some 
thing  of  that  sort." 

Mr.  Winslow  asked  if  Phineas'  feeling  against  Captain 
Hunniwell  had  softened  at  all.  Leander's  reply  was  a 
vigorous  negative. 

"Not  a  bit,"  he  declared.  "He  hates  the  cap'n  worse  than 
ever,  if  that's  possible,  and  he'll  do  him  some  bad  turn 
some  day,  if  he  can,  I'm  afraid.  You  must  think  it's  queer 
my  speaking  this  way  of  my  own  father,"  he  added.  "Well, 
I  don't  to  any  one  else.  Somehow  a  fellow  always  feels  as 
if  he  could  say  just  what  he  thinks  to  you,  Jed  Winslow. 
I  feel  that  way,  anyhow." 

He  and  Jed  shook  hands  at  the  door  in  the  early  No 
vember  twilight.  Leander  was  to  eat  his  Thanksgiving  din 
ner  at  home  and  then  leave  for  camp  on  the  afternoon 
train. 

"Well,  good-by,"  he  said. 

Jed  seemed  loath  to  relinquish  the  handclasp. 

"Oh,  don't  say  good-by;  it's  just  'See  you  later/"  he 
replied. 

Leander  smiled.  "Of  course.  Well,  then,  see  you  later, 
Jed.  We'll  write  once  in  a  while;  eh?" 

Jed  promised.  The  young  fellow  strode  off  into  the 
dusk.  Somehow,  with  his  square  shoulders  and  his  tanned, 
resolute  country  face,  he  seemed  to  typify  Young  America 
setting  cheerfully  forth  to  face — anything — that  Honor  and 
Decency  may  still  be  more  than  empty  words  in  this  world 
of  ours. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  Hunniwell  Thanksgiving  dinner  was  an  entire 
success.  Even  Captain  Sam  himself  was  forced  to 
admit  it,  although  he  professed  to  do  so  with  re 
luctance. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  an  elaborate  wink  in  the  direction 
of  his  guests,  "it's  a  pretty  good  dinner,  considerin'  every 
thing.  Of  course  'tain't  what  a  feller  used  to  get  down 
at  Sam  Coy's  eatin'-house  on  Atlantic  Avenue,  but  it's 
pretty  good — as  I  say,  when  everything's  considered." 

His  daughter  was  highly  indignant.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  this  dinner  isn't  as  good  as  those  you  used  to  get 
at  that  Boston  restaurant,  Pa  ?"  she  demanded.  "Don't  you 
dare  say  such  a  thing." 

Her  father  tugged  at  his  beard  and  looked  tremendously 
solemn. 

"Well,"  he  observed,  "as  a  boy  I  was  brought  up  to  al 
ways  speak  the  truth  and  I've  tried  to  live  up  to  my  early 
trainin'.  Speakin'  as  a  truthful  man,  then,  I'm  obliged  to 
say  that  this  dinner  ain't  like  those  I  used  to  get  at  Sam 
Coy's." 

Ruth  put  in  a  word.  "Well,  then,  Captain  Hunniwell," 
she  said,  "I  think  the  restaurant  you  refer  to  must  be  one  of 
the  best  in  the  world." 

Before  the  captain  could  reply,  Maud  did  it  for  him. 

"Mrs.  Armstrong,"  she  cautioned,  "you  mustn't  take  my 
father  too  seriously.  He  dearly  loves  to  catch  people  with 
what  he  hopes  is  a  joke.  For  a  minute  he  caught  even  me 
this  time,  but  I  see  through  him  now.  He  didn't  say  the 
dinner  at  his  precious  restaurant  was  better  than  this  one, 

235 


236  "SHAVINGS" 


he  said  it  wasn't  like  it,  that's  all.  Which  is  probably 
true,"  she  added,  with  withering  scorn.  "But  what  / 
should  like  to  know  is  what  he  means  by  his  'everything  con 
sidered.'  " 

Her  lather's  gravity  was  unshaken.  "Well,"  he  said,  "all 
I  meant  was  that  this  was  a  pretty  good  dinner,  considerin' 
who  was  responsible  for  gettin'  it  up." 

"I  see,  I  see.  Mrs.  Ellis,  our  housekeeper,  and  I  are 
responsible,  Mrs.  Armstrong,  so  you  understand  now  who 
he  is  shooting  at.  Very  well,  Pa,"  she  added,  calmly,  "the 
rest  of  us  will  have  our  dessert  now.  You  can  get  yours 
at  Sam  Coy's." 

The  dessert  was  mince  pie  and  a  Boston  frozen  pudding, 
the  latter  an  especial  favorite  of  Captain  Sam's.  He  ca 
pitulated  at  once. 

"  'Kamerad !  Kamerad !'  "  he  cried,  holding  up  both 
hands.  "That's  what  the  Germans  say  when  they  surren 
der,  ain't  it  ?  I  give  in,  Maud.  You  can  shoot  me  against 
a  stone  wall,  if  you  want  to,  only  give  me  my  frozen  pud- 
din'  first.  It  ain't  so  much  that  I  like  the  puddin',"  he 
explained  to  Mrs.  Armstrong,  "but  I  never  can  make  out 
whether  it's  flavored  with  tansy  or  spearmint.  Maud  won't 
tell  me,  but  I  know  it's  somethin'  old-fashioned  and  reminds 
me  of  my  grandmother;  or,  maybe,  it's  my  grandfather; 
come  to  think,  I  guess  likely  'tis." 

Ruth  grasped  his  meaning  later  when  she  tasted  the  pud 
ding  and  found  it  flavored  with  New  England  rum. 

After  dinner  they  adjourned  to  the  parlor.  Maud,  be 
ing  coaxed  by  her  adoring  father,  played  the  piano.  Then 
she  sang.  Then  they  all  sang,  all  except  Jed  and  the  cap 
tain,  that  is.  The  latter  declared  that  his  voice  had  mil 
dewed  in  the  damp  weather  they  had  been  having  lately, 
and  Jed  excused  himself  on  the  ground  that  he  had  been 
warned  not  to  sing  because  it  was  not  healthy. 


"SHAVINGS"  237 


Barbara  was  surprised  and  shocked. 

"Why,  Uncle  Jed !"  she  cried.  "You  sing  ever  so  much. 
I  heard  you  singing  this  morning." 

Jed  nodded.  "Ye-es,"  he  drawled,  "but  I  was  alone  then 
and  I'm  liable  to  take  chances  with  my  own  health.  Bluey 
Batcheldor  was  in  the  shop  last  week,  though,  when  I  was 
tunin'  up  and  it  disagreed  with  him." 

"I  don't  believe  it,  Uncle  Jed,"  with  righteous  indignation. 
"How  do  you  know  it  did?" 

"  'Cause  he  said  so.  He  listened  a  spell,  and  then  said 
I  made  him  sick,  so  I  took  his  word  for  it." 

Captain  Sam  laughed  uproariously.  "You  must  be 
pretty  bad  then,  Jed,"  he  declared.  "Anybody  who  dis 
agrees  with  Bluey  Batcheldor  must  be  pretty  nigh  the 
limit." 

Jed  nodded.  "Um-hm,"  he  said,  reflectively,  "pretty  nigh, 
but  not  quite.  Always  seemed  to  me  the  real  limit  was  any 
body  who  agreed  with  him." 

So  Jed,  with  Babbie  on  his  knee,  sat  in  the  corner  of  the 
bay  window  looking  out  on  the  street,  while  Mrs.  Armstrong 
and  her  brother  and  Miss  Hunniwell  played  and  sang  and 
the  captain  applauded  vigorously  and  loudly  demanded 
more.  After  a  time  Ruth  left  the  group  at  the  piano  and 
joined  Jed  and  her  daughter  by  the  window.  Captain 
Hunniwell  came  a  few  minutes  later. 

"Make  a  good-lookin'  couple,  don't  they?"  he  whispered, 
bending  down,  and  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  in  the  direction 
of  the  musicians.  "Your  brother's  a  fine-lookin'  young 
chap,  Mrs.  Armstrong.  And  he  acts  as  well  as  he  looks. 
Don't  know  when  I've  taken  such  a  shine  to  a  young  feller 
as  I  have  to  him.  Yes,  ma'am,  they  make  a  good-lookin' 
couple,  even  if  one  of  'em  is  my  daughter." 

The  speech  was  made  without  the  slightest  thought  or 
suggestion  of  anything  but  delighted  admiration  and  paren- 


238  "SHAVINGS" 


tal  affection.  Nevertheless,  Ruth,  to  whom  it  was  made, 
started  slightly,  and,  turning,  regarded  the  pair  at  the  piano. 
Maud  was  fingering  the  pages  of  a  book  of  college  songs 
and  looking  smilingly  up  into  the  face  of  Charles  Phillips, 
who  was  looking  down  into  hers.  There  was,  apparently, 
nothing  in  the  picture — a  pretty  one,  by  the  way — to  cause 
Mrs.  Armstrong  to  gaze  so  fixedly  or  to  bring  the  slight 
frown  to  her  forehead.  After  a  moment  she  turned 
toward  Jed  Winslow.  Their  eyes  met  and  in  his  she  saw 
the  same  startled  hint  of  wonder,  of  possible  trouble,  she 
knew  he  must  see  in  hers.  Then  they  both  looked  away. 

Captain  Hunniwell  prated  proudly  on,  chanting  praises 
of  his  daughter's  capabilities  and  talents,  as  he  did  to  any 
one  who  would  listen,  and  varying  the  monotony  with  oc 
casional  references  to  the  wonderful  manner  in  which  young 
Phillips  had  "taken  hold"  at  the  bank.  Ruth  nodded  and 
murmured  something  from  time  to  time,  but  to  any  one  less 
engrossed  by  his  subject  than  the  captain  it  would  have  been 
evident  she  was  paying  little  attention.  Jed,  who  was  be 
ing  entertained  by  Babbie  and  Petunia,  was  absently  pre 
tending  to  be  much  interested  in  a  fairy  story  which  the 
former  was  improvising — she  called  the  process  "making 
up  as  I  go  along" — for  his  benefit.  Suddenly  he  leaned 
forward  and  spoke. 

"Sam,"  he  said,  "there's  somebody  comin'  up  the  walk. 
I  didn't  get  a  good  sight  of  him,  but  it  ain't  anybody  that 
lives  here  in  Orham  regular." 

"Eh?  That  so?"  demanded  the  captain.  "How  do  you 
know  'tain't  if  you  didn't  see  him  ?" 

"  'Cause  he's  comin'  to  the  front  door,"  replied  Mr.  Win- 
slow,  with  unanswerable  logic.  "There  he  is  now,  comin' 
out  from  astern  of  that  lilac  bush.  Soldier,  ain't  he?" 

It  was  Ruth  Armstrong  who  first  recognized  the  visitor. 
"Why,"  she  exclaimed,  "it  is  Major  Grover,  isn't  it?" 


'SHAVINGS"  239 


The  major  it  was,  and  a  moment  later  Captain  Hunni- 
well  ushered  him  into  the  room.  He  had  come  to  Orham 
on  an  errand,  he  explained,  and  had  stopped  at  the  wind 
mill  shop  to  see  Mr.  Winslow.  Finding  the  latter  out,  he 
'had  taken  the  liberty  of  following  him  to  the  Hunniwell 
home. 

"I'm  going  to  stay  but  a  moment,  Captain  Hunni 
well,"  he  went  on.  "I  wanted  to  talk  with  Winslow  on  a — 
well,  on  a  business  matter.  Of  course  I  won't  do  it  now 
but  perhaps  we  can  arrange  a  time  convenient  for  us  both 
when  I  can." 

"Don't  cal'late  there'll  be  much  trouble  about  that,"  ob 
served  the  captain,  with  a  chuckle.  "Jed  generally  has 
time  convenient  for  'most  everybody ;  eh,  Jed  ?" 

Jed  nodded.  "Um-hm,"  he  drawled,  "for  everybody  but 
Gab  Bearse." 

"So  you  and  Jed  are  goin'  to  talk  business,  eh?"  queried 
Captain  Sam,  much  amused  at  the  idea.  "Figgerin'  to  have 
him  rig  up  windmills  to  drive  those  flyin'  machines  of 
yours,  Major?" 

"Not  exactly.  My  business  was  of  another  kind,  and 
probably  not  very  important,  at  that.  I  shall  probably  be 
over  here  again  on  Monday,  Winslow.  Can  you  see  me 
then?" 

Jed  rubbed  fils  chin.  "Ye-es,"  he  said,  "I'll  be  on  private 
exhibition  to  my  friends  all  day.  And  children  half  price," 
he  added,  giving  Babbie  a  hug.  "But  say,  Major,  how  in 
the  world  did  you  locate  me  to-day?  How  did  you  know 
I  was  over  here  to  Sam's  ?  I  never  told  you  I  was  comin', 
I'll  swear  to  that." 

For  some  reason  or  other  Major  Grover  seemed  just  a 
little  embarrassed. 

"Why  no,"  he  said,  stammering  a  trifle,  "you  didn't  tell 
me,  but  some  one  did.  Now,  who " 


240  "SHAVINGS" 


"I  think  I  told  you,  Major,"  put  in  Ruth  Armstrong. 
"Last  evening,  when  you  called  to — to  return  Charlie's 
umbrella.  I  told  you  we  were  to  dine  here  to-day  and  that 
Jed — Mr.  Winslow — was  to  dine  with  us.  Don't  you  re 
member  ?" 

Grover  remembered  perfectly  then,  of  course.  He  has 
tened  to  explain  that,  having  borrowed  the  umbrella  of 
Charles  Phillips  the  previous  week,  he  had  dropped  in  on 
his  next  visit  to  Orham  to  return  it. 

Jed  grunted. 

"Humph !"  he  said,  "you  never  came  to  see  me  last  night. 
When  you  was  as  close  aboard  as  next  door  seems's  if 
you  might." 

The  major  laughed.  "Well,  you'll  have  to  admit  that  I 
came  to-day,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  put  in  Captain  Sam,  "and,  now  you  are  here, 
you're  goin'  to  stay  a  spell.  Oh,  yes,  you  are,  too.  Uncle 
Sam  don't  need  you  so  hard  that  he  can't  let  you  have  an 
hour  or  so  off  on  Thanksgiving  Day.  Maud,  why  in  time 
didn't  we  think  to  have  Major  Grover  here  for  dinner  along 
with  the  rest  of  the  folks?  Say,  couldn't  you  eat  a  plate 
of  frozen  puddin'  right  this  minute?  We've  got  some  on 
hand  that  tastes  of  my  grandfather,  and  we  want  to  get 
rid  of  it." 

Their  caller  laughingly  declined  the  frozen  pudding,  but 
he  was  prevailed  upon  to  remain  and  hear  Miss  Hunniwell 
play.  So  Maud  played  and  Charles  turned  the  music  for 
her,  and  Major  Grover  listened  and  talked  with  Ruth  Arm 
strong  in  the  intervals  between  selections.  And  Jed  and 
Barbara  chatted  and  Captain  Sam  beamed  good  humor  upon 
every  one.  It  was  a  very  pleasant,  happy  afternoon.  War 
and  suffering  and  heartache  and  trouble  seemed  a  long, 
long  way  off. 

On  the  way  back  to  the  shop  in  the  chill  November  dusk 


"SHAVINGS"  241 


Grover  told  Jed  a  little  of  v,hat  he  had  called  to  discuss 
with  him.  If  Jed's  mind  had  been  of  the  super-critical 
type  it  might  have  deemed  the  subject  of  scarcely  sufficient 
importance  to  warrant  the  major's  pursuing  him  to  the  Hun- 
niwells'.  It  was  simply  the  subject  of  Phineas  Babbitt  and 
the  latter's  anti-war  utterances  and  surmised  disloyalty. 

"You  see,"  explained  Grover,  "some  one  evidently  has 
reported  the  old  chap  to  the  authorities  as  a  suspicious  per 
son.  The  government,  I  imagine,  isn't  keen  on  sending  a 
special  investigator  down  here,  so  they  have  asked  me  to 
look  into  the  matter.  I  don't  know  much  about  Babbitt, 
but  I  thought  you  might.  Is  he  disloyal,  do  you  think?" 

Jed  hesitated.  Things  the  hardware  dealer  had  said  had 
been  reported  to  him,  of  course;  but  gossip — particularly 
the  Bearse  brand  of  gossip — was  not  the  most  reliable  of 
evidence.  Then  he  remembered  his  own  recent  conversa 
tion  with  Leander  and  the  latter's  expressed  fear  that  his 
father  might  get  into  trouble.  Jed  determined,  for  the 
son's  sake,  not  to  bring  that  trouble  nearer. 

"Well,  Major,"  he  answered,  "I  shouldn't  want  to  say 
that  he  was.  Phineas  talks  awful  foolish  sometimes,  but 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that  was  his  hot  head  and  bull  temper 
as  much  as  anything  else.  As  to  whether  he's  anything 
more  than  foolish  or  not,  course  I  couldn't  say  sartin,  but 
I  don't  think  he's  too  desperate  to  be  runnin'  loose.  I 
cal'late  he  won't  put  any  bombs  underneath  the  town  hall 
or  anything  of  that  sort.  Phin  and  his  kind  remind  me 
some  of  that  new  kind  of  balloon  you  was  tellin'  me  they'd 
probably  have  over  to  your  camp  when  'twas  done,  that — 
er — er — dirigible;  wasn't  that  what  you  called  it?" 

"Yes.  But  why  does  Babbitt  remind  you  of  a  dirigible 
balloon?  I  don't  see  the  connection." 

"Don't  you?  Well,  seems's  if  I  did.  Phin  fills  himself 
up  with  the  gas  he  gets  from  his  Anarchist  papers  and 


242  "SHAVINGS" 


magazines — the  'rich  man's  war'  and  all  the  rest  of  it — 
and  goes  up  in  the  air  and  when  he's  up  in  the  air  he's 
kind  of  hard  to  handle.  That's  what  you  told  me  about  the 
balloon,  if  I  recollect." 

Grover  laughed  heartily.  "Then  the  best  thing  to  do  is 
to  keep  him  on  the  ground,  I  should  say,"  he  observed. 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin.  "Um-hm,"  he  drawled,  "but  shut- 
tin'  off  his  gas  supply  might  help  some.  I  don't  think  I'd 
worry  about  him  much,  if  I  was  you." 

They  separated  at  the  front  gate  before  the  shop,  where 
the  rows  of  empty  posts,  from  which  the  mills  and  vanes 
had  all  been  removed,  stood  as  gaunt  reminders  of  the 
vanished  summer.  Major  Grover  refused  Jed's  invitation 
to  come  in  and  have  a  smoke. 

"No,  thank  you,"  he  said,  "not  this  evening.  I'll  wait 
here  a  moment  and  say  good-night  to  the  Armstrongs  and 
Phillips  and  then  I  must  be  on  my  way  to  the  camp.  .  .  . 
Why,  what's  the  matter?  Anything  wrong?" 

His  companion  was  searching  in  his  various  pockets.  The 
search  completed,  he  proceeded  to  look  himself  over,  so 
to  speak,  taking  off  his  hat  and  looking  at  that,  lifting  a 
hand  and  then  a  foot  and  looking  at  them,  and  all  with  a 
puzzled,  far-away  expression.  When  Grover  repeated  his 
question  he  seemed  to  hear  it  for  the  first  time  and  then  not 
very  clearly. 

"Eh?"  he  drawled.  "Oh,  why — er — yes,  there  is  some- 
thin'  wrong.  That  is  to  say,  there  ain't,  and  that's  the 
wrong  part  of  it.  I  don't  seem  to  have  forgotten  any 
thing,  that's  the  trouble." 

His  friend  burst  out  laughing. 

"I  should  scarcely  call  that  a  trouble,"  he  said. 

"Shouldn't  you?  No,  I  presume  likely  you  wouldn't. 
But  I  never  go  anywhere  without  forgettin'  somethin',  for- 
gettin'  to  say  somethin'  or  do  somethin'  or  bring  something 


'SHAVINGS"  243 


Never  did  in  all  my  life.  Now  here  I  am  home  again  and 
I  can't  remember  that  I've  forgot  a  single  thing.  .  .  .  Hum. 
.  .  .  Well,  I  declare!  I  wonder  what  it  means.  Maybe, 
it's  a  sign  somethin's  goin'  to  happen." 

He  said  good  night  absent-mindedly.  Grover  laughed 
and  walked  away  to  meet  Ruth  and  her  brother,  who,  with 
Barbara  dancing  ahead,  were  coming  along  the  sidewalk. 
He  had  gone  but  a  little  way  when  he  heard  Mr.  Win- 
slow  shouting  his  name. 

"Major!"  shouted  Jed.  "Major  Grover!  It's  all  right, 
Major,  I  feel  better  now.  I've  found  it.  'Twas  the  key.  I 
left  it  in  the  front  door  lock  here  when  I  went  away  this 
mornin'.  I  guess  there's  nothin'  unnatural  about  me,  after 
all ;  guess  nothin's  goin'  to  happen." 

But  something  did  and  almost  immediately.  Jed,  en 
tering  the  outer  shop,  closed  the  door  and  blundered  on 
through  that  apartment  and  the  little  shop  adjoining  until 
he  came  to  his  living-room  beyond.  Then  he  fumbled 
about  in  the  darkness  for  a  lamp  and  matchbox.  He  found 
the  latter  first,  on  the  table  where  the  lamp  should  have 
been.  Lighting  one  of  the  matches,  he  then  found  the  lamp 
on  a  chair  directly  in  front  of  the  door,  where  he  had  put  it 
before  going  away  that  morning,  his  idea  in  so  doing  being 
that  it  would  thus  be  easier  to  locate  when  he  returned  at 
night.  Thanking  his  lucky  stars  that  he  had  not  upset  both 
chair  and  lamp  in  his  prowlings,  Mr.  Winslow  lighted  the 
latter.  Then,  with  it  in  his  hand,  he  turned,  to  see  the 
very  man  he  and  Major  Grover  had  just  been  discussing 
seated  in  the  rocker  in  the  corner  of  the  room  and  glaring  at 
him  malevolently. 

Naturally,  Jed  was  surprised.  Naturally,  also,  being 
himself,  he  showed  his  surprise  in  his  own  peculiar  way. 
He  did  not  start  violently,  nor  utter  an  exclamation.  In- 


244  "SHAVINGS" 


stead  he  stood  stock  still,  returning  Phineas  Babbitt's  glare 
with  a  steady,  unwinking  gaze. 

It  was  the  hardware  dealer  who  spoke  first.  And  that, 
by  the  way,  was  precisely  what  he  had  not  meant  to  do. 

"Yes,"  he  observed,  with  caustic  sarcasm,  "it's  me.  You 
needn't  stand  there  blinkin'  like  a  fool  any  longer,  Shav- 
in's.  It's  me." 

Jed  set  the  lamp  upon  the  table.  He  drew  a  long  breath, 
apparently  of  relief. 

"Why,  so  'tis,"  he  said,  solemnly.  "When  I  first  saw 
you  sittin'  there,  Phin,  I  had  a  suspicion  'twas  you,  but  the 
longer  I  looked  the  more  I  thought  'twas  the  President 
come  to  call.  Do  you  know,"  he  added,  confidentially,  "if 
you  didn't  have  any  whiskers  and  he  looked  like  you  you'd 
be  the  very  image  of  him." 

This  interesting  piece  of  information  was  not  received 
with  enthusiasm.  Mr.  Babbitt's  sense  of  humor  was  not 
acutely  developed. 

"Never  mind  the  funny  business,  Shavin's,"  he  snapped. 
"I  didn't  come  here  to  be  funny  to-night.  Do  you  know 
why  I  came  here  to  talk  to  you  ?" 

Jed  pulled  forward  a  chair  and  sat  down. 

"I  presume  likely  you  came  here  because  you  found  the 
door  unlocked,  Phin,"  he  said. 

"I  didn't  say  how  I  came  to  come,  but  why  I  came.  I 
knew  where  you  was  this  afternoon.  I  see  you  when  you 
left  there  and  I  had  a  good  mind  to  cross  over  and  say 
what  I  had  to  say  before  the  whole  crew,  Sam  HunniweK, 
and  his  stuck-up  rattle-head  of  a  daughter,  and  that  Arm 
strong  bunch  that  think  themselves  so  uppish,  and  all  of 
'em." 

Mr.  Winslow  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "Now, 
Phin,"  he  protested,  "seems  to  me " 


"SHAVINGS"  245 


But  Babbitt  was  too  excited  to  heed.  His  little  eyes 
snapped  and  his  bristling  beard  quivered. 

"You  hold  your  horses,  Shavin's,"  he  ordered.  "I  didn't 
come  here  to  listen  to  you.  I  came  because  I  had  some- 
thin'  to  say  and  when  I've  said  it  I'm  goin'  and  goin'  quick. 
My  boy's  been  hpme.  You  knew  that,  I  suppose,  didn't 
you?" 

Jed  nodded.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  knew  Leander'd  come 
home  for  Thanksgivin'." 

"Oh,  you  did !  He  came  here  to  this  shop  to  see  you, 
maybe  ?  Humph !  I'll  bet  he  did,  the  poor  fool !" 

Again  Jed  shifted  his  position.  His  hands  clasped  about 
his  knee  and  his  foot  lifted  from  the  floor. 

"There,  there,  Phin,"  he  said  gently ;  "after  all,  he's  your 
only  son,  you  know." 

"I  know  it.     But  he's  a  fool  just  the  same." 

"Now,  Phin !  The  boy'll  be  goin'  to  war  pretty  soon,  you 
know,  and " 

Babbitt  sprang  to  his  feet.  His  chin  trembled  so  that 
he  could  scarcely  speak. 

"Shut  up !"  he  snarled.  "Don't  let  me  hear  you  say  that 
again,  Jed  Winslow.  Who  sent  him  to  war?  Who  filled 
his  head  full  of  rubbish  about  patriotism,  and  duty  to  the 
country,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  rotten  Wall  Street  stuff? 
Who  put  my  boy  up  to  enlistin',  Jed  Winslow?" 

Jed's  foot  swung  slowly  back  and  forth. 

"Well,  Phin,"  he  drawled,  "to  be  real  honest,  I  think  he 
put  himself  up  to  it." 

"You're  a  liar.     You  did  it." 

Jed  sighed.     "Did  Leander  tell  you  I  did?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  mockingly,  "Leander  didn't  tell  me.  You  and  Sam 
Hunniwell  and  the  rest  of  the  gang  have  fixed  him  so  he 
don't  come  to  his  father  to  tell  things  any  longer.  But  he 
told  his  step-mother  this  very  mornin'  and  she  told  me. 


246  "SHAVINGS" 


You  was  the  one  that  advised  him  to  enlist,  he  said.  Good 
Lord ;  think  of  it !  He  don't  go  to  his  own  father  for  ad 
vice;  he  goes  to  the  town  jackass  instead,  the  critter  that 
spends  his  time  whittlin'  out  young-one's  playthings.  My 
Lord  A'mighty !" 

He  spat  on  the  floor  to  emphasize  his  disgust.  There 
was  an  interval  of  silence  before  Jed  answered. 

"Well,  Phin,"  he  said,  slowly,  "you're  right,  in  a  way. 
L,eander  and  I  have  always  been  pretty  good  friends  and 
he's  been  in  the  habit  of  droppin'  in  here  to  talk  things  over 
with  me.  When  he  came  to  me  to  ask  what  he  ought  to 
do  about  enlistm',  asked  what  I'd  do  if  I  was  he,  I  told  him ; 
that's  all  there  was  to  it." 

Babbitt  extended  a  shaking  forefinger. 

"Yes,  and  you  told  him  to  go  to  war.  Don't  lie  out  of 
it  now;  you  know  you  did." 

"Urn  ...  yes  ...  I  did." 

"You  did?  You  did?  And  you  have  the  cheek  to  own 
up  to  it  right  afore  my  face." 

Jed's  hand  stroked  his  chin.  "W-e-e-11,"  he  drawled,  "you 
just  ordered  me  not  to  lie  out  of  it,  you  know.  Leander 
asked  me  right  up  and  down  if  I  wouldn't  enlist  if  I  was 
in  his  position.  Naturally,  I  said  I  would." 

"Yes,  you  did.  And  you  knew  all  the  time  how  I  felt 
about  it,  you  sneak." 

Jed's  foot  slowly  sank  to  the  floor  and  just  as  slowly  he 
hoisted  himself  from  the  chair. 

"Phin,"  he  said,  with  deliberate  mildness,  "is  there  any 
thing  else  you'd  like  to  ask  me?  'Cause  if  there  isn't, 
maybe  you'd  better  run  along." 

"You  sneakin'  coward !" 

"Er — er — now — now,  Phin,  you  didn't  understand.  I 
said  'ask'  me,  not  'call'  me." 

"No,  I  didn't  come  here  to  ask  you  anything.     I  came 


"SHAVINGS"  247 


here  and  waited  here  so's  to  be  able  to  tell  you  somethin'. 
And  that  is  that  I  know  now  that  you're  responsible  for  my 
son — my  onh  boy,  the  boy  I'd  depended  on — and — 
and " 

The  fierce  little  man  was,  for  the  moment,  close  to  break 
ing  down.  Jed's  heart  softened ;  he  felt  almost  conscience- 
stricken. 

'Tm  sorry  for  you,  Phineas,"  he  said.  "I  know  how 
hard  it  must  be  for  you.  Leander  realized  it,  too. 
He " 

"Shut  up!  Shavin's,  you  listen  to  me.  I  don't  forget. 
All  my  life  Fvr  never  forgot.  And  I  ain't  never  missed 
gettin'  square.  I  can  wait,  just  as  I  waited  here  in  the  dark 
over  an  hour  so's  to  say  this  to  you.  I'll  get  square  with 
you  just  as  I'll  get  square  with  Sam  Hunniwell.  .  .  .  That's 
all.  .  .  .  That's  all.  .  .  .  Damn  you!" 

He  stamped  from  the  room  and  Jed  heard  him  stumbling 
through  the  littered  darkness  of  the  shops  on  his  way 
to  the  front  door,  kicking  at  the  obstacles  he  tripped  over 
and  swearing  and  sobbing  as  he  went.  It  was  ridiculous 
enough,  of  course,  but  Jed  did  not  feel  like  smiling.  The 
bitterness  of  the  little  man's  final  curse  was  not  humorous. 
Neither  was  the  heartbreak  in  his  tone  when  he  spoke  of 
his  boy.  Jed  felt  no  self-reproach ;  he  had  advised  Leander 
just  as  he  might  have  advised  his  own  son  had  his  life  been 
like  other  men's  lives,  normal  men  who  had  married  and 
possessed  sons.  He  had  no  sympathy  for  Phineas  Bab 
bitt's  vindictive  hatred  of  all  those  more  fortunate  than  he 
or  who  opposed  him,  or  for  his  silly  and  selfish  ideas  con 
cerning  the  war.  But  he  did  pity  him;  he  pitied  him  pro 
foundly. 

Babbitt  had  left  the  front  door  open  in  his  emotional  de 
parture  and  Jed  followed  to  close  it.  Before  doing  so  he 
stepped  out  into  the  yard. 


248  "SHAVINGS" 


.  It  was  pitch  dark  now  and  still.  He  could  hear  the  foot 
steps  of  his  recent  visitor  pounding  up  the  road,  and  the 
splashy  grumble  of  the  surf  on  the  bar  was  inusually  aud 
ible.  He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  up  at  the  black  sky, 
with  the  few  stars  shining  between  the  cloud  blotches. 
Then  he  turned  and  looked  at  the  little  house  next  door. 

The  windows  of  the  sitting-room  were  alight  and  the 
shades  drawn.  At  one  window  he  saw  Charles  Phillips' 
silhouette;  he  was  reading,  apparently.  Across  the  other 
shade  Ruth's  dainty  profile  came  and  went.  Jed  looked 
and  looked.  He  saw  her  turn  and  speak  to  some  one. 
Then  another  shadow  crossed  the  window,  the  shadow  of 
Major  Grover.  Evidently  the  major  had  not  gone  home  at 
once  as  he  had  told  Jed  he  intended  doing,  plainly  he  had 
been  persuaded  to  enter  the  Armstrong  house  and  make 
Charlie  and  his  sister  a  short  call.  This  was  Jed's  estimate 
of  the  situation,  his  sole  speculation  concerning  it  and  its 
probabilities. 

And  yet  Mr.  Gabe  Bearse,  had  he  seen  the  major's 
shadow  upon  the  Armstrong  window  curtain,  might  have 
speculated  much. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  pity  which  Jed  felt  for  Phineas  Babbitt  caused 
him  to  keep  silent  concerning  his  Thanksgiving  eve 
ning  interview  with  the  hardware  dealer.  At  first  he 
was  inclined  to  tell  Major  Grover  of  Babbitt's  expressions 
concerning  the  war  and  his  son's  enlistment.  After  reflec 
tion,  however,  he  decided  not  to  do  so.  The  Winslow  char 
ity  was  wide  enough  to  cover  a  multitude  of  other  people's 
sins  and  it  covered  those  of  Phineas.  The  latter  was  to  be 
pitied ;  as  to  fearing  him,  as  a  consequence  of  his  threat  to 
"get  square,"  Jed  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  If  he 
felt  any  anxiety  at  all  in  the  matter  it  was  a  trifling  uneasi 
ness  because  his  friends,  the  Hunniwells  and  the  Arm 
strongs,  were  included  in  the  threat.  But  he  was  inclined 
to  consider  Mr.  Babbitt's  wrath  as  he  had  once  estimated 
the  speech  of  a  certain  Ostable  candidate  for  political  office, 
to  be  "like  a  tumbler  of  plain  sody  water,  mostly  fizz  and 
froth  and  nothin'  very  substantial  or  fillin'."  He  did  not 
tell  Grover  of  the  interview  in  the  shop;  he  told  no  one, 
not  even  Ruth  Armstrong. 

The — to  him,  at  least — delightful  friendship  and  intimacy 
between  himself  and  his  friends  and  tenants  continued.  He 
and  Charlie  Phillips  came  to  know  each  other  better  and 
better.  Charles  was  now  almost  as  confidential  concern 
ing  his  personal  affairs  as  his  sister  had  been  and  continued 
to  be, 

"It's  surprising  how  I  come  in  here  and  tell  you  all  my 
private  business,  Jed,"  he  said,  laughing.  "I  don't  go 
about  shouting  my  joys  and  troubles  in  everybody's  ear  like 
this.  Why  do  I  do  it  to  you  ?" 

249 


250  "SHAVINGS" 


Jed  stopped  a  dismal  whistle  in  the  middle  of  a  bar. 

"W-e-e-11,"  he  drawled,  "I  don't  know.  When  I  was  a 
young-one  I  used  to  like  to  holler  out  back  of  Uncle  Laban 
Ryder's  barn  so's  to  hear  the  echo.  When  you  say  so  and 
so,  Charlie,  I  generally  agree  with  you.  Maybe  you  come 
here  to  get  an  echo;  eh?" 

Phillips  laughed.  "You're  not  fair  to  yourself,"  he  said. 
"I  generally  find  when  the  echo  in  here  says  no  after  I've 
said  yes  it  pays  me  to  pay  attention  to  it.  Sis  says  the 
same  thing  about  you,  Jed." 

Jed  made  no  comment,  but  his  eyes  shone.  Charles 
went  on. 

"Don't  you  get  tired  of  hearing  the  story  of  my  life?" 
he  asked.  "I- 

He  stopped  short  and  the  smile  faded  from  his  lips.  Jed 
knew  why.  The  story  of  his  life  was  just  what  he  had  not 
told,  what  he  could  not  tell. 

As  January  slid  icily  into  February  Mr.  Gabriel  Bearse 
became  an  unusually  busy  person.  There  were  so  many 
things  to  talk  about.  Among  these  was  one  morsel  which 
Gabe  rolled  succulently  beneath  his  tongue.  Charles  Phil 
lips,  "  'cordin'  to  everybody's  tell,"  was  keeping  company 
with  Maud  Hunniwell. 

"There  ain't  no  doubt  of  it,"  declared  Mr.  Bearse.  "All 
hands  is  talkin'  about  it.  Looks's  if  Cap'n  Sam  would  have 
a  son-in-law  on  his  hands  pretty  soon.  How  do  you  csl'late 
he'd  like  the  idea,  Shavin's?" 

Jed  squinted  along  the  edge  of  the  board  he  was  plan 
ing.  He  made  no  reply.  Gabe  tried  again. 

"How  do  you  cal'late  Cap'n  Sam'll  like  the  notion  of  his 
pet  daughter  takin'  up  with  another  man  ?"  he  queried.  Jed 
was  still  mute.  His  caller  lost  patience. 

"Say,  what  ails  you?"  he  demanded.  "Can't  you  say 
notfain'  ?" 


"SHAVINGS"  251 


Mr.  Winslow  put  down  the  board  and  took  up  another. 

"Ye-es,"  he  drawled. 

"Then  why  don't  you,  for  thunder  sakes?" 

"Eh?  ...  Urn.  ...  Oh,  I  did." 

"Did  what?" 

"Say  nothin'." 

"Oh,  you  divilish  idioi!  Stop  tryin'  to  be  funny.  I 
asked  you  how  you  thought  Cap'n  Sam  would  take  the 
notion  of  Maud's  havin'  a  steady  beau?  She's  had  a  good 
many  after  her,  but  looks  as  if  she  was  stuck  on  this  one 
for  keeps." 

Jed  sighed  and  looked  over  his  spectacles  at  Mr.  Bearse. 
The  latter  grew  uneasy  under  the  scrutiny. 

"What  in  time  are  you  lookin'  at  me  like  that  for?"  he 
asked,  pettishly. 

The  windmill  maker  sighed  again.  "Why — er — Gab,"  he 
drawled,  "I  was  just  thinkin'  likely  you  might  be  stuck  for 
keeps." 

"Eh?     Stuck?    What  are  you  talkin'  about?" 

"Stuck  on  that  box  you're  sittin'  on.  I  had  the  glue  pot 
standin'  on  that  box  just  afore  you  came  in  and  .  .  .  er 
...  it  leaks  consider'ble." 

Mr.  Bearse  raspingly  separated  his  nether  garment  from 
the  top  of  the  box  and  departed,  expressing  profane 
opinions.  Jed's  lips  twitched  for  an  instant,  then  he 
puckered  them  and  began  to  whistle. 

But,  although  he  had  refused  to  discuss  the  matter  with 
Gabriel  Bearse,  he  realized  that  there  was  a  strong  element 
of  probability  in  the  latter's  surmise.  It  certainly  did  look 
as  if  the  spoiled  daughter  of  Orham's  bank  president  had 
lost  her  heart  to  her  father's  newest  employee.  Maud  had 
had  many  admirers ;  some  very  earnest  and  lovelorn  swains 
had  hopefully  climbed  the  Hunniwell  front  steps  only  to 
sorrowfully  descend  them  again.  Miss  Melissa  Busteed 


252  "SHAVINGS" 


and  other  local  scandal  scavengers  had  tartly  classified  the 
young  lady  as  the  "worst  little  flirt  on  the  whole  Cape," 
which  was  not  true.  But  Maud  was  pretty  and  vivacious 
and  she  was  not  averse  to  the  society  and  adoration  of  the 
male  sex  in  general,  although  she  had  never  until  now  shown 
symptoms  of  preference  for  an  individual.  But  Charlie 
Phillips  had  come  and  seen  and,  judging  by  appearances, 
conquered. 

Since  the  Thanksgiving  dinner  the  young  man  had  been 
a  frequent  visitor  at  the  Hunniwell  home.  Maud  was 
musical,  she  played  well  and  had  a  pleasing  voice.  Charles' 
baritone  was  unusually  good.  So  on  many  evenings  Cap 
tain  Sam's  front  parlor  rang  with  melody,  while  the  cap 
tain  smoked  in  the  big  rocker  and  listened  admiringly  and 
gazed  dotingly.  At  the  moving-picture  theater  on  Wednes 
day  and  Saturday  evenings  Orham  nudged  and  winked 
when  two  Hunniwells  and  a  Phillips  came  down  the  aisle. 
Even  at  the  Congregational  church,  where  Maud  sang  in 
the  choir,  the  young  bank  clerk  was  beginning  to  be  a  fairly 
constant  attendant.  Captain  Eri  Hedge  declared  that  that 
settled  it. 

"When  a  young  feller  who  ain't  been  to  meetin'  for  land 
knows  how  long,"  observed  Captain  Eri,  "all  of  a  sudden 
begins  showin'  up  every  Sunday  reg'lar  as  clockwork,  you 
can  make  up  your  mind  it's  owin'  to  one  of  two  reasons — • 
either  he's  got  religion  or  a  girl.  In  this  case  there  ain't 
any  revival  in  town,  so ' 

And  the  captain  waved  his  hand. 

Jed  was  not  blind  and  he  had  seen,  perhaps  sooner  than 
any  one  else,  the  possibilities  in  the  case.  And  what  he 
saw  distressed  him  greatly.  Captain  Sam  Hunniwell  was 
his  life-long  friend.  Maud  had  been  his  pet  since  her  baby 
hood  ;  she  and  he  had  had  many  confidential  chats  together, 
over  troubles  at  school,  over  petty  disagreements  with  her 


"SHAVINGS"  253 


father,  over  all  sorts  of  minor  troubles  and  joys.  Captain 
Sam  had  mentioned  to  him,  more  than  once,  the  probabil 
ity  of  his  daughter's  falling  in  love  and  marrying  some  time 
or  other,  but  they  both  had  treated  the  idea  as  vague  and 
far  off,  almost  as  a  joke. 

And  now  it  was  no  longer  far  off,  the  falling  in  love  at 
least.  And  as  for  its  being  a  joke — Jed  shuddered  at  the 
thought.  He  was  very  fond  of  Charlie  Phillips;  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  at  first  to  like  him  because  he  was  Ruth's 
brother,  but  now  he  liked  him  for  himself.  And,  had 
things  been  other  than  as  they  were,  he  could  think  of  no 
one  to  whom  he  had  rather  see  Maud  Hunniwell  married. 
In  fact,  had  Captain  Hunniwell  known  the  young  man's 
recordj  of  his  slip  and  its  punishment,  Jed  would  have  been 
quite  content  to  see  the  latter  become  Maud's  husband.  A 
term  in  prison,  especially  when,  as  in  this  case,  he  believed 
it  to  be  an  unwarranted  punishment,  would  have  counted 
for  nothing  in  the  unworldly  mind  of  the  windmill  maker. 
But  Captain  Sam  did  not  know.  He  was  tremendously 
proud  of  his  daughter ;  in  his  estimation  no  man  would  have 
been  quite  good  enough  for  her.  What  would  he  say  when 
he  learned?  What  would  Maud  say  when  she  learned? 
for  it  was  almost  certain  that  Charles  had  not  told  her. 
These  were  some  of  the  questions  which  weighed  upon  the 
simple  soul  of  Jedidah  Edgar  Wilfred  Winslow. 

And  heavier  still  there  weighed  the  thought  of  Ruth 
Armstrong.  He  had  given  her  his  word  not  to  mention 
her  brother's  secret  to  a  soul,  not  even  to  him.  And  yet, 
some  day  or  other,  as  sure  and  certain  as  the  daily  flowing 
and  ebbing  of  the  tides,  that  secret  would  become  known. 
Some  day  Captain  Sam  Hunniwell  would  learn  it;  some 
day  Maud  would  learn  it.  Better,  far  better,  that  they 
learned  it  before  marriage,  or  even  before  the  public  an 
nouncement  of  their  engagement — always  provided  there 


254  "SHAVINGS" 


was  to  be  such  an  engagement.  In  fact,  were  it  not  for 
Ruth  herself,  no  consideration  for  Charles'  feelings  would 
have  prevented  Jed's  taking  the  matter  up  with  the  young 
man  and  warning  him  that,  unless  he  made  a  clean  breast 
to  the  captain  and  Maud,  he — Jed — would  do  it  for  him. 
The  happiness  of  two  such  friends  should  not  be  jeopar 
dized  if  he  could  prevent  it. 

But  there  was  Ruth.  She,  not  her  brother,  was  pri 
marily  responsible  for  obtaining  for  him  the  bank  position 
and  obtaining  it  under  fake  pretenses.  And  she,  accord 
ing  to  her  own  confession  to  Jed,  had  urged  upon  Charles 
the  importance  of  telling  no  one.  Jed  himself  would  have 
known  nothing,  would  have  had  only  a  vague,  indefinite 
suspicion,  had  she  not  taken  him  into  her  confidence.  And 
to  him  that  confidence  was  precious,  sacred.  If  Charlie's 
secret  became  known,  it  was  not  he  alone  who  would  suf 
fer  ;  Ruth,  too,  would  be  disgraced.  She  and  Babbie  might 
have  to  leave  Orham,  might  have  to  go  out  of  his  life  for 
ever. 

No  wonder  that,  as  the  days  passed,  and  Gabe  Bearse's 
comments  and  those  of  Captain  Eri  Hedge  were  echoed  and 
reasserted  by  the  majority  of  Orham  tongues,  Jed  Win- 
slow's  worry  and  foreboding  increased.  He  watched 
Charlie  Phillips  go  whistling  out  of  the  yard  after  supper, 
and  sighed  as  he  saw  him  turn  up  the  road  in  the  direction 
of  the  Hunniwell  home.  He  watched  Maud's  face  v;hen 
he  met  her  and,  although  the  young  lady  was  in  better  spir 
its  and  prettier  than  he  had  ever  seen  her,  these  very  facts 
made  him  miserable,  because  he  accepted  them  as  proofs 
that  the  situation  was  as  he  feared.  He  watched  Ruth's 
face  also  and  there,  too,  he  saw,  or  fancied  that  he  saw, 
a  growing  anxiety.  She  had  been  very  well;  her  spirits, 
like  Maud's,  had  been  light;  she  had  seemed  younger  and 
so  *nuch  happier  than  when  he  and  she  first  met.  The  lit' 


"SHAVINGS"  255 


tie  Winslow  house  was  no  longer  so  quiet,  with  no  sound 
of  voices  except  those  of  Barbara  and  her  mother.  There 
were  Red  Cross  sewing  meetings  there  occasionally,  and 
callers  came.  Major  Grover  was  one  of  the  latter.  The 
major's  errands  in  Orham  were  more  numerous  than  they 
had  been,  and  his  trips  thither  much  more  frequent,  in  con 
sequence.  And  whenever  he  came  he  made  it  a  point  to 
drop  in,  usually  at  the  windmill  shop  first,  and  then  upon 
Babbie  at  the  house.  Sometimes  he  brought  her  home  from 
school  in  his  car.  He  told  Jed  that  he  had  taken  a  great 
fancy  to  the  little  girl  and  could  not  bear  to  miss  an  oppor 
tunity  of  seeing  her.  Which  statement  Jed,  of  course,  ac 
cepted  wholeheartedly. 

But  Jed  was  sure  that  Ruth  had  been  anxious  and 
troubled  of  late  and  he  believed  the  reason  to  be  that  which 
troubled  him.  He  hoped  she  might  speak  to  him  concern 
ing  her  brother.  He  would  have  liked  to  broach  the  sub 
ject  himself,  but  feared  she  might  consider  him  interfering. 

One  day — it  was  in  late  February,  the  ground  was  cov 
ered  with  snow  and  a  keen  wind  was  blowing  in  over  a 
sea  gray-green  and  splashed  thickly  with  white — Jed  was 
busy  at  his  turning  lathe  when  Charlie  came  into  the  shop. 
Business  at  the  bank  was  not  heavy  in  mid-winter  and,  al 
though  it  was  but  little  after  three,  the  young  man  was 
through  work  for  the  day.  He  hoisted  himself  to  his  ac 
customed  seat  on  the  edge  of  the  workbench  and  sat  there, 
swinging  his  feet  and  watching  his  companion  turn  out 
the  heads  and  trunks  of  a  batch  of  wooden  sailors.  He 
was  unusually  silent,  for  him,  merely  nodding  in  response 
to  Jed's  cheerful  "Hello !"  and  speaking  but  a  few  words 
in  reply  to  a  question  concerning  the  weather.  Jed,  ab 
sorbed  in  his  work  and  droning  a  hymn,  apparently  forgot 
all  about  his  caller. 

Suddenly  the  latter  spoke. 


256  "SHAVINGS" 


"Jed,"  he  said,  "when  you  are  undecided  about  doing  or 
not  doing  a  thing,  how  do  you  settle  it?" 

Jed  looked  up  over  his  spectacles. 

"Eh?"  he  asked.     "What's  that?" 

"I  say  when  you  have  a  decision  to  make  and  your  mind 
is  about  fifty-fifty  on  the  subject,  how  do  you  decide?" 

Jed's  answer  was  absently  given.  "W-e-e-11,"  he  drawled, 
"I  generally — er — don't" 

"But  suppose  the  time  comes  when  you  have  to,  what 
then?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  then,  if  'tain't  very*  important  I  usually 
leave  it  to  Isaiah." 

"Isaiah?     Isaiah  who?" 

"I  don't  know  his  last  name,  but  he's  got  a  whole  lot  of 
first  ones.  That's  him,  up  on  that  shelf." 

He  pointed  to  a  much  battered  wooden  figure  attached 
to  the  edge  of  the  shelf  upon  the  wall.  The  figure  was 
that  of  a  little  man  holding  a  set  of  mill  arms  in  front  of 
him.  The  said  mill  arms  were  painted  a  robin's-egg  blue, 
and  one  was  tipped  with  black. 

"That's  Isaiah,"  continued  Jed.  "Hum  .  .  .  yes  .  .  . 
that's  him.  He  was  the  first  one  of  his  kind  of  contrap 
tion  that  I  ever  made  and,  bein'  as  he  seemed  to  bring  me 
luck,  I've  kept  him.  He's  settled  a  good  many  questions 
for  me,  Isaiah  has." 

"Why  do  you  call  him  Isaiah  ?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  that's  just  his  to-day's  name.  I  called 
him  Isaiah  just  now  'cause  that  was  the  first  of  the  prophet 
names  I  could  think  of.  Next  time  he's  just  as  liable  to 
be  Hosea  or  Ezekiel  or  Samuel  or  Jeremiah.  He  prophe 
sies  just  as  well  under  any  one  of  'em,  don't  seem  to  be 
particular." 

Charles  smiled  slightly — he  did  not  appear  to  be  in  a 


"SHAVINGS"  257 


laughing  mood — and  then  asked :  "You  say  he  settles  ques 
tions  for  you?  How?" 

"How?  .  .  .  Oh.  .  .  .  Well,  you  notice  one  end  of  that 
whirligig  arm  he's  got  is  smudged  with  black?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  Hosea's  indicator.  Suppose  I've  got  somethin' 
on — on  what  complimentary  folks  like  you  would  call  my 
mind.  Suppose,  same  as  'twas  yesterday  mornin',  I  was 
tryin'  to  decide  whether  or  not  I'd  have  a  piece  of  steak 
for  supper.  I  gave — er — Elisha's  whirlagig  here  a  spin 
and  when  the  black  end  stopped  'twas  p'intin'  straight  up. 
That  meant  yes.  If  it  had  p'inted  down,  'twould  have 
meant  no." 

"Suppose  it  had  pointed  across — half  way  between  yes 
and  no?" 

"That  would  have  meant  that — er — what's-his-name — er 
— Deuteronomy  there  didn't  know  any  more  than  I  did 
about  it." 

This  time  Phillips  did  laugh.  "So  you  had  the  steak," 
he  observed. 

Jed's  lip  twitched.  "I  bought  it,"  he  drawled.  "I  got 
so  far  all  accordin'  to  prophecy.  And  I  put  it  on  a  plate 
out  in  the  back  room  where  'twas  cold,  intendin'  to  cook  it 
when  supper  time  came." 

"Well,  didn't  you?" 

"No-o;  you  see,  'twas  otherwise  provided.  That  ever- 
lastin'  Cherub  tomcat  of  Taylor's  must  have  sneaked  in 
with  the  boy  when  he  brought  the  order  from  the  store. 
When  I  shut  the  steak  up  in  the  back  room  I — er — er — 
hum.  .  .  ." 

"You  did  what?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  shut  the  cat  up  with  it.  I  guess  likely 
that's  the  end  of  the  yarn,  ain't  it?" 


258  "SHAVINGS" 


"Pretty  nearly,  I  should  say.  What  did  you  do  to  the 
cat?" 

"Hum,  .  .  .  Why,  I  let  him  go.  He's  a  good  enough 
cat,  'cordin'  to  his  lights,  I  guess.  It  must  have  been  a 
treat  to  him;  I  doubt  if  he  gets  much  steak  at  home.  .  .  . 
Well,  do  you  want  to  give  Isaiah  a  whirl  on  that  decision 
you  say  you've  got  to  make  ?" 

Charles  gave  him  a  quick  glance.  "I  didn't  say  I  had 
one  to  make,"  he  replied.  "I  asked  how  you  settled  such 
a  question,  that's  all." 

"Urn.  ...  I  see.  ...  I  see.  Well,  the  prophet's  at 
your  disposal.  Help  yourself." 

The  young  fellow  shook  his  head.  "I'm  afraid  it 
wouldn't  be  very  satisfactory,"  he  said.  "He  might  say 
no  when  I  wanted  him  to  say  yes,  you  see." 

"Um-hm.  .  .  .  He's  liable  to  do  that.  When  he  does  it 
to  me  I  keep  on  spinnin'  him  till  we  agree,  that's  all." 

Phillips  made  no  comment  on  this  illuminating  statement 
and  there  was  another  interval  of  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  hum  and  rasp  of  the  turning  lathe.  Then  he  spoke 
again. 

"Jed,"  he  said,  "seriously  now,  when  a  big  question  comes 
up  to  you,  and  you've  got  to  answer  it  one  way  or  the  other, 
how  do  you  settle  with  yourself  which  way  to  answer?" 

Jed  sighed.  "That's  easy,  Charlie,"  he  declared.  "There 
don't  any  big  questions  ever  come  up  to  me.  I  ain't  the 
kind  of  feller  the  big  things  come  to." 

Charles  grunted,  impatiently.  "Oh,  well,  admitting  all 
that,"  he  said,  "you  must  have  to  face  questions  that  are 
big  to  you,  that  seem  big,  anyhow." 

Jed  could  not  help  wincing,  just  a  little.  The  matter- 
of-fact  way  in  which  his  companion  accepted  the  estimate 
of  his  insignificance  was  humiliating.  Jed  did  not  blame 


"SHAVINGS"  259 


him,  it  was  true,  of  course,  but  the  truth  hurt — a  little. 
He  was  ashamed  of  himself  for  feeling  the  htfrt. 

"Oh,"  he  drawled,  "I  do  have  some  things — little  no- 
account  things — to  decide  every  once  in  a  while.  Some 
times  they  bother  me,  too — although  they  probably  wouldn't 
anybody  with  a  head  instead  of  a  Hubbard  squash  on  his 
shoulders.  The  only  way  I  can  decide  'em  is  to  set  down 
and  open  court,  put  'em  on  trial,  as  you  rriight  say." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  I  call  in  witnesses  for  both  sides,  seems  so. 
Here's  the  reasons  why  I  ought  to  tell;  hette's  the  reasons 
why  I  shouldn't.  I- 

"Tell?  Ought  to  tellf  What  makes,  you  say  that* 
What  have  you  got  to  tell?" 

He  was  glaring  at  the  windmill  maker  with  frightened 
eyes.  Jed  knew  as  well  as  if  it  had  been  painted  on  the 
shop  wall  before  him  the  question  in  the  hoy's  mind,  the 
momentous  decision  he  was  trying  to  make.  And  he  pit 
ied  him  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 

"Tell?"  he  repeated.  "Did  I  say  tell?  Welt,  if  I  did 
'twas  just  a — er — rigger  of  speech,  as  the  book  fellers  talk 
about.  But  the  only  way  to  decide  a  thing,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  is  to  try  and  figger  out  what's  the  right  of  it,  and  then 
do  that." 

Phillips  looked  gfeomily  at  the  floor.  "And  that's  such 
an  easy  job,"  he  observed,  with  sarcasm. 

"The  figgerin'  or  the  doin'?" 

"Oh,  the  doing;  the  figuring  is  usually  easy  enough — 
too  easy.  But  the  doing  is  different.  The  average  fellow 
is  afraid.  I  don't  suppose  you  would  be,  Jed.  I  can  imag 
ine  you  doing  almost  anything  if  you  thought  it  was  right, 
and  hang  the  consequences." 

Jed  looked  aghast.  "Who?  Me?"  he  queried.  "Good 
land  of  love,  don't  talk  that  way,  Charlie !  I'm  the  scarest 


260  "SHAVINGS" 


critter  that  lives  and  the  weakest-kneed,  too,  'most  gener 
ally.  But — but,  all  the  same,  I  do  believe  the  best  thing, 
and  the  easiest  in  the  end,  not  only  for  you — or  me — but 
for  all  hands,  is  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns  and  heave  the 
critter,  if  you  can.  There  may  be  an  awful  big  trouble, 
but  big  or  little  it'll  be  over  and  done  with.  That  bull  won't 
be  hangin'  around  all  your  life  and  sneakin'  up  astern  to 
get  you — and  those  you — er — care  for.  .  .  .  Mercy  me, 
how  I  do  preach !  They'll  be  callin'  me  to  the  Baptist  pul 
pit,  if  I  don't  look  out.  I  understand  they're  candidatin'." 

His  friend  drew  a  long  breath.  "There  is  a  poem  that 
I  used  to  read,  or  hear  some  one  read,"  he  observed,  "that 
fills  the  bill  for  any  one  with  your  point  of  view,  I  should 
say.  Something  about  a  fellow's  not  being  afraid  to  put 
all  his  money  on  one  horse,  or  the  last  card — about  his  not 
deserving  anything  if  he  isn't  afraid  to  risk  everything. 
Wish  I  could  remember  it." 

Jed  looked  up  from  the  lathe. 

"  'He   either   fears   his   fate   too   much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch 
To  win  or  lose  it  all.' 

That's  somethin'  like  it,  ain't  it,  Charlie?"  he  asked. 

Phillips  was  amazed.  "Well,  I  declare,  Winslow,"  he 
exclaimed,  "you  beat  me!  I  can't  place  you  at  all.  Who 
ever  would  have  accused  you  of  reading  poetry — and  quot 
ing  it." 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin.  "I  don't  know  much,  of  course," 
he  said,  "but  there's  consider'ble  many  poetry  books  up  to 
the  library  and  I  like  to  read  'em  sometimes.  You're  liable 
to  run  across  a — er — poem — well,  like  this  one,  for  instance 
— that  kind  of  gets  hold  of  you.  It  fills  the  bill,  you  might 


"SHAVINGS"  261 


say,  as  nothin'  else  does.     There's  another  one  that's  bet 
ter  still.    About — 

'Once  to  every  man  and  nation 
Comes  the  moment  to  decide. 

Do  you  know  that  one?" 

His  visitor  did  not  answer.  After  a  moment  he  swung 
himself  from  the  workbench  and  turned  toward  the  door. 

"  'He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much/  "  he  quoted,  gloom 
ily.  "Humph !  I  wonder  if  it  ever  occurred  to  that  chap 
that  there  might  be  certain  kinds  of  fate  that  couldn't  be 
feared  too  much?  .  .  .  Well,  so  long,  Jed.  Ah  hum,  you 
don't  know  where  I  can  get  hold  of  some  money,  do  you?" 

Jed  was  surprised.  "Humph!"  he  grunted.  "I  should 
say  you  had  hold  of  money  two-thirds  of  every  day.  Fel 
ler  that  works  in  a  bank  is  supposed  to  handle  some  cash." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  with  an  impatient  laugh,  "but  that  is 
somebody  else's  money,  not  mine.  I  want  to  get  some  of 
my  own." 

"Sho !  .  .  .  Well,  I  caFlate  I  could  let  you  have  ten  or 
twenty  dollars  right  now,  if  that  would  be  any  help  to  you." 

"It  wouldn't;  thank  you  just  the  same.  If  it  was  five 
hundred  instead  of  ten,  why — perhaps  I  shouldn't  say  no/' 

Jed  was  startled. 

"Five  hundred?"  he  repeated.  "Five  hundred  dollars? 
Do  you  need  all  that  so  very  bad,  Charlie  ?" 

Phillips,  his  foot  upon  the  threshold  of  the  outer  shop, 
turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"The  way  I  feel  now  I'd  do  almost  anything  to  get  it," 
he  said,  and  went  out. 

Jed  told  no  one  of  this  conversation,  although  his  friend's 
parting  remark  troubled  and  puzzled  him.  In  fact  it 
troubled  him  so  much  that  at  a  subsequent  meeting  with 


262  "SHAVINGS" 


Charles  he  hinted  to  the  latter  that  he  should  be  glad  to 
lend  the  five  hundred  himself. 

"I  ought  to  have  that  and  some  more  in  the  bank,"  he 
said.  "Sam  would  know  whether  I  had  or  not.  .  .  .  Eh? 
Why,  and  you  would,  too,  of  course.  I  forgot  you  know 
as  much  about  folks'  bank  accounts  as  anybody.  .  .  . 
More'n  some  of  'em  do  themselves,  bashfulness  stoppin' 
me  from  namin'  any  names,"  he  added. 

Charles  looked  at  him.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Jed 
Winslow,"  he  safd,  "that  you  would  lend  me  five  hundred 
dollars  without  any  security  or  without  knowing  in  the 
least  what  I  wanted  it  for?" 

"Why — why,  of  course.  'Twouldn't  be  any  of  my  busi 
ness  what  you  wanted  it  for,  would  it?" 

"Humph !     Have  you  done  much  lending  of  that  kind  ?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Um.  .  .  .  Well,  I  used  to  do  consider'ble,  but 
Sam  he  kind  of  put  his  foot  down  and  said  I  shouldn't  do 
any  more.  But  I  don't  have  to  mind  him,  you  know,  al 
though  I  generally  do  because  it's  easier — and  less  noisy," 
he  added,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"Well,  you  ought  to  mind  him ;  he's  dead  right,  of  course. 
You're  a  good  fellow,  Jed,  but  you  need  a  guardian." 

Jed  shook  his  head  sadly.  "I  hate  to  be  so  unpolite  as 
to  call  your  attention  to  it,"  he  drawled,  "but  I've  heard 
somethin'  like  that  afore.  Up  to  now  I  ain't  found  any 
guardian  that  needs  me,  that's  the  trouble.  And  if  I  want  to 
lend  you  five  hundred  dollars,  Charlie,  I'm  goin'  to.  Oh, 
I'm  a  divil  of  a  feller  when  I  set  out  to  be,  desperate  and 
reckless,  I  am." 

Charlie  laughed,  but  he  put  his  hand  on  Jed's  shoulder, 
"You're  a  brick,  I  know  that,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  a  million 
times  obliged  to  you.  But  I  was  only  joking;  I  don't  need 
any  five  hundred." 

"Eh?  ...  You  don't?  .  .  .  Why,  you  said " 


'SHAVINGS"  263 


"Oh,  I — er — need  some  new  clothes  and  things  and  I  was 
talking  foolishness,  that's  all.  Don't  you  worry  about  me, 
Jed;  I'm  all  right" 

But  Jed  did  worry,  a  little,  although  his  worry  concern 
ing  the  young  man's  need  of  money  was  so  far  over 
shadowed  by  the  anxiety  caused  by  his  falling  in  love  with 
Maud  Hunniwell  that  it  was  almost  forgotten.  That  situa 
tion  was  still  as  tense  as  ever.  Two-thirds  of  Orham,  so 
it  seemed  to  Jed,  was  talking  about  it,  wondering  when  the 
engagement  would  be  announced  and  speculating,  as  Gabe 
Bearse  had  done,  on  Captain  Sam's  reception  of  the  news. 
The  principals,  Maud  and  Charles,  did  not  speak  of  it,  of 
course — neither  did  the  captain  or  Ruth  Armstrong.  Jed 
expected  Ruth  to  speak ;  he  was  certain  she  understood  the 
situation  and  realized  its  danger;  she  appeared  to  him  anx 
ious  and  very  nervous.  It  was  to  him,  and  to  him  alone — 
her  brother  excepted — she  could  speak,  but  the  days  passed 
and  she  did  not.  And  it  was  Captain  Huomwell  who  spoke 
first 


CHAPTER  XVI 

CAPTAIN  SAM  entered  the  windmill  shop  about  two 
o'clock  one  windy  afternoon  in  the  first  week  of 
March.  He  was  wearing  a  heavy  fur  overcoat  and 
a  motoring  cap.  He  pulled  off  the  coat,  threw  it  over  a 
pile  of  boards  and  sat  down. 

"Whew !"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  blowing  hard  enough  to 
start  the  bark  on  a  log." 

Jed  looked  up. 

"Did  you  say  log  or  dog?"  he  asked,  solemnly. 

The  captain  grinned.  "I  said  log,"  he  answered.  "This 
gale  of  wind  would  blow  a  dog  away,  bark  and  all.  Whew ! 
I'm  all  out  of  breath.  It's  some  consider'ble  of  a  drive  over 
from  Wapatomac.  Comin'  across  that  stretch  of  marsh 
road  by  West  Ostable  I  didn't  know  but  the  little  flivver 
would  turn  herself  into  a  flyin'-machine  and  go  up." 

Jed  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  first  note  of  a  hymn. 

"What  in  the  world  sent  you  autoin'  way  over  to  Wapa 
tomac  and  back  this  day?"  he  asked. 

His  friend  bit  the  end  from  a  cigar.  "Oh,  diggin'  up  the 
root  of  all  evil,"  he  said.  "I  had  to  collect  a  note  that  was 
due  over  there." 

"Humph!  I  don't  know  much  about  such  things,  but  I 
never  mistrusted  'twas  necessary  for  you  to  go  cruisin' 
like  that  to  collect  notes.  Seems  consider'ble  like  sendin' 
the  skipper  up  town  to  buy  onions  for  the  cook.  Couldn't 
the — the  feller  that  owed  the  money  send  you  a  check  ?" 

Captain  Sam  chuckled.  "He  could,  I  cal'late,  but  he 
wouldn't,"  he  observed.  "  'Twas  old  Sylvester  Sage,  up  to 

264 


'SHAVINGS"  265 


South  Wapatomac,  the  'cranberry  king'  they  call  him  up 
there.  He  owns  cranberry  bogs  from  one  end  of  the  Cape 
to  the  other.  You've  heard  of  him,  of  course." 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin.  "Maybe  so,"  he  drawled,  "but  if  I 
have  I've  forgot  him.  The  only  sage  I  recollect  is  the  sage 
tea  Mother  used  to  make  me  take  when  I  had  a  cold  some 
times.  I  couldn't  forget  that." 

"Well,  everybody  but  you  has  heard  of  old  Sylvester. 
He's  the  biggest  crank  on  earth." 

"Hum-m.  Seems  's  if  he  and  I  ought  to  know  each  other. 
.  .  .  But  maybe  he's  a  different  kind  of  crank;  eh?" 

"He's  all  kinds.  One  of  his  notions  is  that  he  won't  pay 
bills  by  check,  if  he  can  possibly  help  it.  He'll  travel  fifty 
miles  to  pay  money  for  a  thing  sooner  than  send  a  check 
for  u.  He  had  this  note — fourteen  hundred  dollars  'twas 
— comin'  due  at  our  bank  to-day  and  he'd  sent  word  if  we 
wanted  the  cash  we  must  send  for  it  'cause  his  lumbago 
was  too  bad  for  him  to  travel.  I  wanted  to  see  him  any 
how,  about  a  little  matter  of  a  political  appointment  up  his 
way,  so  I  decided  to  take  the  car  and  go  myself.  Well,  I've 
just  got  back  and  I  had  a  windy  v'yage,  too.  And  cold,  don't 
talk!" 

"Urn  .  .  .  yes.  .  .  .  Get  your  money,  did  you?" 

"Yes,  I  got  it.  It's  in  my  overcoat  pocket  now.  I  thought 
one  spell  I  wasn't  goin'  to  get  it,  for  the  old  feller  was  mad 
about  some  one  of  his  cranberry  buyers  failin'  up  on  him 
and  he  wa^  as  cross-grained  as  a  scrub  oak  root.  He  and 
I  had  a  regular  row  over  the  matter  of  politics  I  went  there 
to  see  him  about  'special.  I  told  him  what  he  was  and  he 
told  me  where  I  could  go.  That's  how  we  parted.  Then 
I  came  home." 

"Hum.  .  .  .  You'd  have  had  a  warmer  trip  if  you'd  gone 
where  he  sent  you,  I  presume  likely.  .  .  .  Um.  .  .  .  Yes, 
yes.  .  .  . 


266  "SHAVINGS" 


There's   a   place   in   this   chorus 

For   you   and    for   me, 
Arid  the  theme  of  it  ever 

And  always  shall  be: 
Hallelujah,  'tis   do-ne! 

I  believe.  .  .  .' 

Hum!  ...  I  thought  that  paint  can  was  full  and  there 
ain't  more'n  a  half  pint  in  it.  I  must  have  drunk  it  in  my 
sleep,  I  guess.  Do  I  look  green  around  the  mouth,  Sam?" 

It  was  just  before  Captain  Sam's  departure  that  he  spoke 
of  his  daughter  and  young  Phillips.  He  mentioned  them 
in  a  most  casual  fashion,  as  he  was  putting  on  his  coat  to 
go,  but  Jed  had  a  feeling  that  his  friend  had  stopped  at 
the  windmill  shop  on  purpose  to  discuss  that  very  subject 
and  that  all  the  detail  of  his  Wapatomac  trip  had  been 
in  the  nature  of  a  subterfuge  to  conceal  this  fact. 

"Oh,"  said  the  captain,  with  somewhat  elaborate  care 
lessness,  as  he  struggled  into  the  heavy  coat,  "I  don't  know 
as  I  told  you  that  the  directors  voted  to  raise  Charlie's 
salary.  Um-hm,  at  last  Saturday's  meetin'  they  did  it. 
'Twas  unanimous,  too.  He's  as  smart  as  a  whip,  that  young 
cfiap.  We  all  think  a  heap  of  him." 

Jed  nodded,  but  made  no  comment.  The  captain  fidgeted 
with  a  button  of  his  coat.  He  turned  toward  the  door, 
stopped,  cleared  his  throat,  hesitated,  and  then  turned  back 
again. 

"Jed,"  he  said,  "has — has  it  seemed  to  you  that — that  he 
— that  Charlie  was — maybe — comin'  to  think  consider'ble 
of — of  my  daughter — of  Maud?" 

Jed  looked  up,  caught  his  eye,  and  looked  down  again. 
Captain  Sam  sighed. 

"I  see,"  he  said.  "You  don't  need  to  answer.  I  pre 
sume  likely  the  whole  town  has  been  talkin'  about  it  for 
land  knows  how  long.  It's  generally  the  folks  at  home  that 


'SHAVINGS"  267 


don't  notice  till  the  last  gun  fires.  Of  course  I  knew  he 
was  comin'  to  the  house  a  good  deal  and  that  he  and  Maud 
seemed  to  like  each  other's  society,  and  all  that.  But  it 
never  struck  me  that — that  it  meant  anything  serious,  you 
know — anything — anything — well,  you  know  what  I  mean, 
Jed." 

"Yes.    Yes,  Sam,  I  suppose  I  do." 

"Yes.  Well,  i — I  don't  know  why  it  never  struck  me, 
either.  If  Georgianna — if  my  wife  had  been  alive,  she'd 
have  noticed,  I'll  bet,  but  I  didn't.  'Twas  only  last  evenin' ; 
when  he  carne  to  get  her  to  go  to  the  pictures,  that  it  came 
across  me,  you  might  say,  like — like  a  wet,  cold  rope's  end 
slappin'  me  in  the  face.  I  give  you  my  word,  Jed,  I — I 
kind  of  shivered  all  over.  She  means — she  means  some- 
thin'  to  me,  that  little  girl  and — and — 

He  seemed  to  find  it  hard  to  go  on.    Jed  leaned  forward. 

"I  know,  Sam,  I  know,"  he  said.    His  friend  nodded. 

"I  know  you  do,  Jed,"  he  said.  "I  don't  think  there's 
anybody  else  knows  so  well.  I'm  glad  I've  got  you  to  talk 
to.  I  cal'late,  though,"  he  added,  with  a  short  laugh,  "if 
some  folks  knew  I  came  here  to — to  talk  over  my  private 
affairs  they'd  think  I  was  goin'  soft  in  the  head." 

Jed  smiled,  and  there  was  no  resentment  in  the  smile. 

"They'd  locate  the  softness  in  t'other  head  of  the  two, 
Sam,"  he  suggested. 

"I  don't  care  where  they  locate  it.  I  can  talk  to  you 
about  things  I  never  mention  to  other  folks.  Guess  it  must 
be  because  you — you — well,  I  don't  know,  but  it's  so,  any 
how.  .  .  .  Well,  to  go  ahead,  after  the  young  folks  had 
gone  I  sat  there  alone  in  the  parlor,  in  the  dark,  tryin'  to 
think  it  out.  The  housekeeper  had  gone  over  to  her  broth 
er's,  so  I  had  the  place  to  myself.  I  thought  and  thought 
and  the  harder  I  thought  the  lonesomer  the  rest  of  my  life 
began  to  look.  And  yet — and  yet  I  kept  tellin'  myself  how 


268  "SHAVINGS" 


selfish  and  foolish  that  was.  I  knew  'twas  a  dead  sartinty 
she'd  be  gettin'  married  some  time.  You  and  I  have  laughed 
about  it  and  joked  about  it  time  and  again.  And  I've  joked 
about  it  with  her,  too.  But — but  jokin's  one  thing  and  this 
was  another.  .  .  .  Whew !" 

He  drew  a  hand  across  his  forehead.  Jed  did  not  speak. 
After  a  moment  the  captain  went  on. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "when  she  got  home,  and  after  he'd 
gone,  I  got  Maud  to  sit  on  my  knee,  same  as  she's  done 
ever  since  she  was  a  little  girl,  and  she  and  I  had  a  talk. 
I  kind  of  led  up  to  the  subject,  as  you  might  say,  and  by 
and  by  we — well,  we  talked  it  out  pretty  straight.  She 
thinks  an  awful  sight  of  him,  Jed.  There  ain't  any  doubt 
about  that,  she  as  much  as  told  me  in  those  words,  and 
more  than  told  me  in  other  ways.  And  he's  tHe  only  one 
she's  ever  cared  two  straws  for,  she  told  me  that.  And — 
and — well,  I  think  she  thinks  he  cares  for  her  that  way,  too, 
although  of  course  she  didn't  say  so.  But  he  hasn't  spoken 
to  her  yet.  I  don't  know,  but — but  it  seemed  to  me,  maybe, 
that  he  might  be  waitin'  to  speak  to  me  first.  I'm  his — er — 
boss,  you  know,  and  perhaps  he  may  feel  a  little — little 
under  obligations  to  me  in  a  business  way  and  that  might 
make  it  harder  for  him  to  speak.  Don't  it  seem  to  you 
maybe  that  might  be  it,  Jed?" 

Poor  Jed  hesitated.  Then  he  stammered  that  he  shouldn't 
be  surprised.  Captain  Sam  sighed. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  that's  it,  it  does  him  credit,  anyhow. 
I  ain't  goin'  to  be  selfish  in  this  thing,  Jed.  If  she's  goin' 
to  have  a  husband — and  she  is,  of  course — I  cal'late  I'd 
rather  'twas  Charlie  than  anybody  else  I've  ever  run  across. 
He's  smart  and  he'll  climb  pretty  high,  I  cal'late.  Our  little 
single-sticked  bankin'  craft  ain't  goin'  to  be  big  enough  for 
him  to  sail  in  very  long.  I  can  see  that  already.  He'll  be 
navigatin'  a  clipper  one  of  these  days.  Well,  that's  the  way 


"SHAVINGS"  269 


I'd  want  it.  I'm  pretty  ambitious  for  that  girl  of  mine  and 
I  shouldn't  be  satisfied  short  of  a  top-notcher.  And  he's  a 
good  feller,  Jed;  a  straight,  clean,  honest  and  above-board 
young  chap.  That's  the  best  of  it,  after  all,  ain't  it  ?" 

Jed's  reply  was  almost  a  groan,  but  his  friend  did  not 
notice.  He  put  on  his  overcoat  and  turned  to  go. 

"So,  there  you  are,"  he  said.  "I  Had  to  talk  to  some 
body,  had  to  get  it  off  my  chest,  and,  as  I  just  said,  it  seems 
to  be  easier  to  talk  such  things  to  you  than  anybody  else. 
Now  if  any  of  the  town  gas  engines — Gab  Bearse  or  any 
body  else — comes  cruisin'  in  here  heavin'  overboard  ques 
tions  about  how  I  like  the  notion  of  Maud  and  Charlie 
takin'  up  with  each  other,  you  can  tell  'em  I'm  tickled  to 
death.  That  won't  be  all  lie,  neither.  I  can't  say  I'm  happy, 
exactly,  but  Maud  is  and  I'm  goin'  to  make-believe  be,  for 
her  sake.  So  long." 

He  went  out.  Jed  put  his  elbows  on  the  workbench  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  He  was  still  in  that  posi 
tion  when  Ruth  Armstrong  came  in.  He  rose  hastily,  but 
she  motioned  him  to  sit  again. 

"Jed,"  she  said,  "Captain  Hunniwell  was  just  here  with 
you ;  I  saw  him  go.  Tell  me,  what  was  he  talking  about  ?" 

Jed  was  confused.  "Why — why,  Mrs.  Ruth,"  he  stam 
mered,  "he  was  just  talkin'  about — about  a  note  he'd  been 
collecting  and — and  such." 

"Wasn't  he  speaking  of  his  daughter — and — and  my 
brother?" 

This  time  Jed  actually  gasped.  Ruth  drew  a  long  breath. 
"I  knew  it,"  she  said. 

"But — but,  for  mercy  sakes,  how  did  you  know?  Did 
he ?" 

"No,  he  didn't  see  me  at  all.  I  was  watching  him  from 

the  window.  But  I  saw  his  face  and "  with  a  sudden 

gesture  of  desperation,  "Oh,  it  wasn't  that  at  all,  Jed.  It 


270  "SHAVINGS" 


was  my  guilty  conscience,  I  guess.  I've  been  expecting 
him  to  speak  to  you — or  me — have  been  dreading  it  every 
day — and  now  somehow  I  knew  he  had  spoken.  I  knew 
it.  What  did  he  say,  Jed?" 

Jed  told  the  substance  of  what  Captain  Sam  had  said. 
She  listened.  When  he  finished  her  eyes  were  wet. 

"Oh,  it  is  dreadful,"  she  moaned.  "I — I  was  so  hoping 
she  might  not  care  for  Charlie.  But  she  does — of  course 
she  does.  She  couldn't  help  it,"  with  a  sudden  odd  little 
flash  of  loyalty. 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin  in  desperation. 

"And — and  Charlie?"  he  asked,  anxiously.  "Does 
he " 

"Yes,  yes,  I'm  sure  he  does.  He  has  never  told  me  so, 
never  in  so  many  words,  but  I  can  see.  I  know  him  better 
than  any  one  else  in  the  world  and  I  can  see.  I  saw  first, 
I  think,  on  Thanksgiving  Day;  at  least  that  is  when  I  first 
began  to  suspect — to  fear." 

Jed  nodded.  "When  they  was  at  the  piano  together  that 
time  and  Sam  said  somethin'  about  their  bein'  a  fine-lookin' 
couple?"  he  said. 

"Why,  yes,  that  was  it.    Are  you  a  mind  reader,  Jed  ?" 

"No-o,  I  guess  not.  But  I  saw  you  lookin'  kind  of  sur 
prised  and — er — well,  scared  for  a  minute.  I  was  feelin' 
the  same  way  just  then,  so  it  didn't  need  any  mind  reader 
to  guess  what  had  scared  you." 

"I  see.  But,  oh,  Jed,  it  is  dreadful !  What  shall  we  do  ? 
What  will  become  of  us  all?  And  now,  when  I — I  had 
just  begun  to  be  happy,  really  happy." 

She  caught  her  breath  in  a  sob.  Jed  instinctively 
stretched  out  his  hand. 

"But  there,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly  wiping  her  eyes, 
"I  mustn't  do  this.  This  is  no  time  for  me  to  think  of 
myself.  Jed,  this  mustn't  go  any  further.  He  must  not 


"SHAVINGS"  271 


ask  her  to  marry  him ;  he  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing." 

Jed  sadly  shook  his  head.  "Fm  afraid  you're  right,"  he 
said.  "Not  as  things  are  now  he  surely  mustn't.  But — but, 
Mrs.  Ruth " 

"Oh,  don't!"  impatiently.  "Don't  use  that  silly  'Mrs.' 
any  longer.  Aren't  you  the — the  best  friend  I  have  in  the 
world  ?  Do  call  me  Ruth." 

If  she  had  been  looking  at  his  face  just  then  she  might 
have  seen — things.  But  she  was  not  looking.  There  was 
an  interval  of  silence  before  he  spoke. 

"Well,  then— er— Ruth "  he  faltered. 

"That's  right.    Go  on." 

"I  was  just  goin'  to  ask  you  if  you  thought  Charlie  was 
cal'latin'  to  ask  her.  I  ain't  so  sure  that  he  is." 

He  told  of  Charles'  recent  visit  to  the  windmill  shop  and 
the  young  man's  query  concerning  the  making  of  a  de 
cision.  She  listened  anxiously. 

"But  don't  you  think  that  means  that  he  was  wonderig 
whether  or  not  he  should  ask  her  ?"  she  said. 

"No.  That  is,  I  don't  think  it's  sartin  sure  it  means 
that.  I  rather  had  the  notion  it  might  mean  he  was  figgerin' 
whether  or  not  to  go  straight  to  Sam  and  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it." 

"You  mean  tell — tell  everything?" 

"Yes,  all  about  the — the  business  at  Middleford.  I  do 
honestly  believe  that's  what  the  boy's  got  on  his  mind  to  do. 
It  ain't  very  surprisin'  that  he  backs  and  fills  some  before 
that  mind's  made  up.  See  what  it  might  mean  to  him:  it 
might  mean  the  loss  of  his  prospects  here  and  his  place  in 
the  bank  and,  more'n  everything  else,  losin'  Maud.  It's 
some  decision  to  make.  If  I  had  to  make  it  I —  Well,  I 
don't  know." 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  eyes.  "The  poor  boy,"  she  said, 
under  her  breath.  "But,  Jed,  do  you  think  that  is  the  de- 


272  "SHAVINGS" 


cision  he  referred  to?  And  why  hasn't  he  said  a  word  to 
me,  his  own  sister,  about  it?  I'm  sure  he  loves  me." 

"Sartin  he  does,  and  that's  just  it,  as  I  see  it.  It  ain't 
his  own  hopes  and  prospects  alone  that  are  all  wrapped  up 
in  this  thing,  it's  yours — and  Babbie's.  He's  troubled  about 
what'll  happen  to  you.  That's  why  he  hasn't  asked  your 
advice,  I  believe." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she  said, 
pleadingly,  "Oh,  Jed,  it  is  up  to  you  and  me,  isn't  it  ?  What 
shall  we  do?" 

It  was  the  "we"  in  this  sentence  which  thrilled.  If 
she  had  bade  him  put  his  neck  in  front  of  the  bandsaw 
just  then  Jed  would  have  obeyed,  and  smilingly  have  pulled 
the  lever  which  set  the  machine  in  motion.  But  the  ques 
tion,  nevertheless,  was  a  staggerer. 

"W-e-e-11,"  he  admitted,  "I — I  hardly  know  what  to  say, 
I  will  give  in.  To  be  right  down  honest — and  the  Lord 
knows  I  hate  to  say  it — it  wouldn't  do  for  a  minute  to  let 
those  two  young  folks  get  engaged — to  say  nothin'  of  get- 
tin'  married — with  this  thing  between  'em.  It  wouldn't 
be  fair  to  her,  nor  to  Sam — no,  nor  to  him  or  you,  either. 
You  see  that,  don't  you?"  he  begged.  "You  know  I  don't 
say  it  for  any  reason  but  just — just  for  the  best  interests 
of  all  hands.  You  know  that,  don't  you — Ruth?" 

"Of  course,  of  course.    But  what  then?" 

"I  don't  really  know  what  then.  Seems  to  me  the  very 
first  thing  would  be  for  you  to  speak  to  him,  put  the  ques 
tion  right  up  to  him,  same  as  he's  been  puttin'  it  to  him 
self  all  this  time.  Get  him  to  talk  it  over  with  you.  And 
then — well,  then " 

"Yes?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!    I  declare  I  don't." 

"Suppose  he  tells  me  he  means  to  marry  her  in  spite  of 
everything  ?  Suppose  he  won't  listen  to  me  at  all  ?" 


"SHAVINGS"  273 


That  possibility  had  been  in  Jed's  mind  from  the  begin 
ning,  but  he  refused  to  consider  it. 

"He  will  listen,"  he  declared,  stoutly.  "He  always  has, 
hasn't  he?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  suppose  he  has.  He  listened  to  me  when  I 
persuaded  him  that  coming  here  and  hiding  all — all  that 
happened  was  the  right  thing  to  do.  And  now  see  what 
has  come  of  it!  And  it  is  all  my  fault.  Oh,  I  have  been- 
so  selfish!" 

"Sshh!  sshh!  You  ain't;  you  couldn't  be  if  you  tried. 
And,  besides,  I  was  as  much  to  blame  as  you.  I  agreed 
that  'twas  the  best  thing  to  do." 

"Oh,"  reproachfully,  "how  can  you  say  that  ?  You  know 
you  were  opposed  to  it  always.  You  only  say  it  because 
you  think  it  will  comfort  me.  It  isn't  true." 

"Eh?  Now — now,  don't  talk  so.  Please  don't.  If  you 
keep  on  talkin'  that  way  I'll  do  somethin'  desperate,  start 
to  make  a  johnny  cake  out  of  sawdust,  same  as  I  did  yes 
terday  mornin',  or  somethin'  else  crazy." 

"Jed !" 

"It's  true,  that  about  the  johnny  cake.  I  came  pretty 
nigh  doin'  that  very  thing.  I  bought  a  five-pound  bag  of 
corn  meal  yesterday  and  fetched  it  home  from  the  store  all 
done  up  in  a  nice  neat  bundle.  Comin'  through  the  shop 
here  I  had  it  under  my  arm,  and — hum — er — well,  to  any 
body  else  it  couldn't  have  happened,  but,  bein'  Jed  Shavin's 
Winslow,  I  was  luggin'  the  thing  with  the  top  of  the  bag 
underneath.  I  got  about  abreast  of  the  lathe  there  when 
the  string  came  off  and  in  less'n  two  thirds  of  a  shake  all  I 
had  under  my  arm  was  the  bag ;  the  meal  was  on  the  floor — 
what  wasn't  in  my  coat  pocket  and  stuck  to  my  clothes  and 
so  on.  I  fetched  the  water  bucket  and  started  to  salvage 
what  I  could  of  the  cargo.  Pretty  soon  I  had,  as  nigh  as 
I  could  reckon  it,  about  fourteen  pound  out  of  the  five 


274  "SHAVINGS" 


scooped  up  and  in  the  bucket,  I  begun  to  think  the  miracle 
of  loaves  and  fishes  was  comin'  to  pass  again.  I  was 
some  shy  on  fish,  but  I  was  makin'  up  on  loaves.  Then 
I  sort  of  looked  matters  over  and  found  what  I  had  in  the 
bucket  was  about  one  pound  of  meal  to  seven  of  sawdust. 
Then  I  gave  it  up.  Seemed  to  me  the  stuff  might  be  more 
fillin'  than  nourishin'." 

Ruth  smiled  faintly.    Then  she  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  Jed,"  she  said,  "you're  as  transparent  as  a  window- 
pane.  Thank  you,  though.  If  anything  could  cheer  me 
up  and  help  me  to  forget  I  think  you  could." 

Jed  looked  repentant.  "I'd  no  business  to  tell  you  all 
that  rigamarole,"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry.  I'm  always  doin' 
the  wrong  thing,  seems  so.  But,"  he  added,  earnestly,  "I 
don't  want  you  to  worry  too  much  about  your  brother — er 
— Ruth.  It's  goin'  to  come  out  all  right,  I  know  it.  God 
won't  let  it  come  out  any  other  way." 

She  had  never  heard  him  speak  in  just  that  way  before 
and  she  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"And  yet  God  permits  many  things  that  seem  entirely 
wrong  to  us  humans,"  she  said. 

"I  know.  Things  like  the  Kaiser,  for  instance.  Well, 
never  mind;  this  one's  goin'  to  come  out  all  right.  I  feel 
it  in  my  bones.  And,"  with  a  return  of  his  whimsical 
drawl,  "I  may  be  short  on  brains,  but  a  blind  man  could 
see  they  never  skimped  me  when  they  passed  out  the 
bones." 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment.  Then,  suddenly  leaning 
forward,  she  put  her  hand  upon  his  big  red  one  as  it  lay 
upon  the  bench. 

"Jed,"  she  said,  earnestly,  "what  should  I  do  without 
you?  You  are  my  one  present  help  in  time  of  trouble.  I 
wonder  if  you  know  what  you  have  come  to  mean  to  me." 

It  was  an  impulsive  speech,  made  from  the  heart,  and 


'SHAVINGS"  275 


without  thought  of  phrasing  or  that  any  meaning  other 
than  that  intended  could  be  read  into  it.  A  moment  later, 
and  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  hurried  from  the 
shop. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said.  "I  shall  think  over  your  advice, 
Jed,  and  I  will  let  you  know  what  I  decide  to  do.  Thank 
you  ever  and  ever  so  much." 

Jed  scarcely  heard  her.  After  she  had  gone,  he  sat 
perfectly  still  by  the  bench  for  a  long  period,  gazing  ab 
sently  at  the  bare  wall  of  the  shop  and  thinking  strange 
thoughts.  After  a  time  he  rose  and,  walking  into  the  lit 
tle  sitting-room,  sat  down  beside  the  ugly  little  oak  writing 
table  he  had  bought  at  a  second-hand  sale  and  opened  the 
upper  drawer. 

Weeks  before,  Ruth,  yielding  to  Babbie's  urgent  appeal, 
had  accompanied  the  latter  to  the  studio  of  the  local  photog 
rapher  and  there  they  had  been  photographed,  together,  and 
separately.  The  results,  although  not  artistic  triumphs, 
being  most  inexpensive,  had  been  rather  successful  as  like 
nesses.  Babbie  had  come  trotting  in  to  show  Jed  the  proofs. 
A  day  or  so  later  he  found  one  of  the  said  proofs  on  the 
shop  floor  where  the  little  girl  had  dropped  it.  It  happened 
to  be  a  photograph  of  Ruth,  sitting  alone. 

And  then  Jed  Winslow  did  what  was  perhaps  the  first 
dishonest  thing  he  had  ever  done.  He  put  that  proof  in 
the  drawer  of  the  oak  writing  table  and  said  nothing  of 
his  having  found  it.  Later  he  made  a  wooden  frame  for 
it  and  covered  it  with  glass.  It  faded  and  turned  black 
as  all  proofs  do,  but  still  Jed  kept  it  in  the  drawer  and 
often,  very  often,  opened  that  drawer  and  looked  at  it. 
Now  he  looked  at  it  for  a  long,  long  time  and  when  he  rose 
to  go  back  to  the  shop  there  was  in  his  mind,  along  with 
the  dream  that  had  been  there  for  days  and  weeks,  for  the 
first  time  the  faintest  dawning  of  a  hope.  Ruth's  im- 


276  "SHAVINGS" 


pulsive  speech,  hastily  and  unthinkingly  made,  was  re 
peating  itself  over  and  over  in  his  brain.  "I  wonder  if  you 
know  what  you  have  come  to  mean  to  me?"  What  had  he 
come  to  mean  to  her? 

An  hour  later,  as  he  sat  at  his  bench,  Captain  Hunniwell 
came  banging  in  once  more.  But  this  time  the  captain 
looked  troubled. 

"Jed,"  he  asked,  anxiously,  "have  you  found  anything 
here  since  I  went  out?" 

Jed  looked  up. 

"Eh?"  he  asked,  absently.  "Found?  What  have  you 
found,  Sam?" 

"I?  I  haven't  found  anything.  I've  lost  four  hundred 
dollars,  though.  You  haven't  found  it,  have  you?" 

Still  Jed  did  not  appear  to  comprehend.  He  had  been 
wandering  the  rose-bordered  paths  of  fairyland  and  was 
not  eager  to  come  back  to  earth. 

"Eh?"  he  drawled.    "You've— what ?" 

His  friend's  peppery  temper  broke  loose. 

"For  thunder  sakes  wake  up !"  he  roared.  "I  tell  you 
I've  lost  four  hundred  dollars  of  the  fourteen  hundred  I 
told  you  I  collected  from  Sylvester  Sage  over  to  Wapato- 
mac  this  mornin'.  I  had  three  packages  of  bills,  two  of  five 
hundred  dollars  each  and  one  of  four  hundred.  The  two 
five  hundred  packages  were  in  the  inside  pocket  of  my  over 
coat  where  I  put  'em.  But  the  four  hundred  one's  gone. 
What  I  want  to  know  is,  did  it  drop  out  when  I  took  off  my 
coat  here  in  the  shop  ?  Do  you  get  that  through  your  head, 
finally?" 

It  had  gotten  through.  Jed  now  looked  as  troubled  as 
his  friend.  He  rose  hastily  and  went  over  to  the  pile  of 
boards  upon  which  Captain  Sam  had  thrown  his  coat  upon; 
entering  the  shop  on  his  previous  visit  that  day.  Together 


"SHAVINGS"  277 

they  searched,  painstakingly  and  at  length.  The  captain 
was  the  first  to  give  up. 

"  'Tain't  here,"  he  snapped.  "I  didn't  think  'twas. 
Where  in  time  is  it  r  That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin. 

"Are  you  sure  you  had  it  when  you  left  Wapatomac?" 
he  asked. 

"Sure?  No,  I  ain't  sure  of  anything.  But  I'd  have 
sworn  I  did.  The  money  was  on  the  table  along  with  my 
hat  and  gloves.  I  picked  it  up  and  shoved  it  in  my  over 
coat  pocket.  And  that  was  a  darned  careless  place  to  put 
it,  too,"  he  added,  testily.  "I'd  have  given  any  feller  that 
worked  for  me  the  devil  for  doin'  such  a  thing." 

Jed  nodded,  sympathetically.  "But  you  might  have  left 
it  there  to  Sylvester's,"  he  said.  "Have  you  thought  of 
telephonin'  to  find  out?" 

"Have  I  thought  ?  Tut,  tut,  tut !  Do  you  think  I've  got 
a  head  like  a  six-year-old  young-one — or  you  ?  Course  I've 
thought—  and  'phoned,  too.  But  it  didn't  do  me  any  good. 
Sylvester's  house  is  shut  up  and  the  old  man's  gone  to 
Boston,  so  the  postmaster  told  me  when  I  'phoned  and 
asked  him.  Won't  be  back  for  a  couple  of  days,  anyhow.  I 
remember  he  told  me  he  was  goin' !" 

"Sho,  sho!  that's  too  bad." 

"Bad  enough,  but  I  don't  think  it  makes  any  real  differ 
ence.  I  swear  I  had  that  money  when  I  left  Sage's.  I  came 
in  here  and  then  I  went  straight  to  the  bank." 

"And  after  you  got  there  ?" 

"Oh,  when  I  got  there  I  found  no  less  than  three  men, 
not  countin'  old  Mrs.  Emmeline  Bartlett,  in  my  room  waitin' 
to  see  me.  Nellie  Hall — my  typewriter,  you  know — she 
knew  where  I'd  been  and  what  a  crank  old  Sage  is  and 
she  says:  'Did  you  get  the  money,  Cap'n?'  And  I  says: 
'Yes,  it's  in  my  overcoat  pocket  this  minute.'  Then  I  hur- 


278  "SHAVINGS" 


ried  in  to  'tend  to  the  folks  that  was  waitin'  for  me.  'Twas 
an  hour  later  afore  I  went  to  my  coat  to  get  the  cash.  Then, 
as  I  say,  all  I  could  find  was  the  two  five  hundred  packages. 
The  four  hundred  one  was  gone." 

"Sho,  sho !  Tut,  tut,  tut !  Where  did  you  put  the  coat 
when  you  took  it  off?" 

"On  the  hook  in  the  clothes  closet  where  I  always  put  it." 

"Hum-m!  And — er — when  you  told  Nellie  about  it  did 
you  speak  loud?" 

"Loud?    No  louder'n  I  ever  do." 

"Well — er — that  ain't  a — er — whisper,  Sam,  exactly." 

"Don't  make  any  difference.  There  wasn't  anybody  out 
side  the  railin'  that  minute  to  hear  if  I'd  bellered  like  a 
bull  of  Bashan.  There  was  nobody  in  the  bank,  I  tell  yon, 
except  the  three  men  and  old  Aunt  Emmeline  and  they  were 
waitin'  in  my  private  room.  And  except  for  Nellie  and 
Eddie  Ellis,  the  messenger,  and  Charlie  Phillips,  there  wan't 
a  soul  around,  as  it  happened.  The  money  hasn't  been 
stolen ;  I  lost  it  somewheres — but  where  ?  Well,  I  can't 
stop  here  any  longer.  I'm  goin'  back  to  the  bank  to  have 
another  hunt." 

He  banged  out  again.  Fortunately  he  did  not  look  at 
his  friend's  face  before  he  went.  For  that  face  had  a  sin 
gular  expression  upon  it.  Jed  sat  heavily  down  in  the 
chair  by  the  bench.  A  vivid  recollection  of  a  recent  remark 
made  in  that  very  shop  had  suddenly  come  to  him.  Charlie 
Phillips  had  made  it  in  answer  to  a  question  of  his  own. 
Charlie  had  declared  that  he  would  do  almost  anything  to 
get  five  hundred  dollars. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  next  morning  found  Jed  heavy-eyed  and  with 
out  appetite,  going  through  the  form  of  preparing 
breakfast.  All  night,  with  the  exception  of  an  hour 
or  two,  he  had  tossed  on  his  bed  alternately  fearing  the 
worst  and  telling  himself  that  his  fears  were  groundless. 
Of  course  Charlie  Phillips  had  not  stolen  the  four  hundred 
dollars.  Had  not  he,  Jed  Winslow,  loudly  proclaimed  to 
Ruth  Armstrong  that  he  knew  her  brother  to  be  a  fine 
young  man,  one  who  had  been  imprudent,  it  is  true,  but 
much  more  sinned  against  than  sinning  and  who  would 
henceforth,  so  he  was  willing  to  swear,  be  absolutely  up 
right  and  honest?  Of  course  the  fact  that  a  sum  of  money 
was  missing  from  the  Orham  National  Bank,  where  Phil 
lips  was  employed,  did  not  necessarily  imply  that  the  latter 
had  taken  it. 

Not  necessarily,  that  was  true;  but  Charlie  had,  in  Jed's 
presence,  expressed  himself  as  needing  money,  a  sum  ap 
proximately  that  which  was  missing;  and  he  had  added 
that  he  would  do  almost  anything  to  get  it.  And — there 
was  no  use  telling  oneself  that  the  fact  had  no  bearing 
on  the  case,  because  it  would  bear  heavily  with  any  un 
prejudiced  person — Charlie's  record  was  against  him.  Jed 
loyally  told  himself  over  and  over  again  that  the  boy  was 
innocent,  he  knew  he  was  innocent.  But The  dread 
ful  "but"  came  back  again  and  again  to  torment  him. 

All  that  day  he  went  about  in  an  alternate  state  of  dread 
and  hope.  Hope  that  the  missing  four  hundred  might  be 
found,  dread  of — many  possibilities.  Twice  he  stopped  at 

279 


280  "SHAVINGS" 


the  bank  to  ask  Captain  Sam  concerning  it.  The  second 
time  the  captain  was  a  trifle  impatient. 

"Gracious  king,  Jed,"  he  snapped.  "What's  the  matter 
with  you?  'Tain't  a  million.  This  institution'!!  probably 
keep  afloat  even  if  it  never  turns  up.  And  'twill  turn  up 
sooner  or  later ;  it's  bound  to.  There's  a  chance  that  I  left 
it  at  old  Sage's.  Soon's  the  old  cuss  gets  back  and  I  can 
catch  him  by  telephone  I'll  find  out.  Meanwhile  I  ain't 
worryin'  and  I  don't  know  why  you  should.  The  main 
thing  is  not  to  let  anybody  know  anything's  missin'.  Once 
let  the  news  get  out  'twill  grow  to  a  hundred  thousand  afore 
night.  There'll  be  a  run  on  us  if  Gab  Bearse  or  Melissa 
Busteed  get  goin'  with  their  throttles  open.  So  don't  you 
whisper  a  word  to  anybody,  Jed.  We'll  find  it  pretty  soon." 

And  Jed  did  not  whisper  a  word.  But  he  anxiously 
watched  the  inmates  of  the  little  house,  watched  Charles' 
face  when  he  came  home  after  working  hours,  watched 
the  face  of  his  sister  as  she  went  forth  on  a.  marketing 
expedition,  even  scrutinized  Babbie's  laughing  countenance 
as  she  came  dancing  into  the  shop,  swinging  Petunia  by 
one  arm.  And  it  was  from  Babbie  he  first  learned  that, 
in  spite  of  all  Captain  Hunniwell's  precautions,  some  one 
had  dropped  a  hint.  It  may  as  well  be  recorded  here  that 
the  identity  of  that  some  one  was  never  clearly  established. 
There  were  suspicions,  centering  about  the  bank  messen 
ger,  but  he  stoutly  denied  having  told  a  living  soul. 

Barbara,  who  was  on  her  way  home  from  school,  and  had 
rescued  the  long-suffering  Petunia  from  the  front  fence 
where  she  had  been  left  suspended  on  a  picket  to  await 
her  parent's  return,  was  bubbling  over  with  news  and  gig 
gles. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Jed,"  she  demanded,  jumping  up  to  perch 
panting  upon  a  stack  of  the  front  elevations  of  birdhouses, 
"isn't  Mr.  Gabe  Bearse  awfully  funny?" 


"SHAVINGS"  281 


Jed  sighed.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "Gabe's  as  funny  as  a  jump- 
in'  toothache." 

The  young  lady  regarded  him  doubtfully.  "I  see,"  she 
said,  after  a  moment,  "you're  joking  again.  I  wish  you'd 
tell  me  when  you're  going  to  do  it,  so  Petunia  and  I  would 
know  for  sure." 

"All  right,  I'll  try  not  to  forget  to  remember.  But  how 
did  you  guess  I  was  jokin'  this  time?" 

"  'Cause  you  just  had  to  be.  A  jumping  toothache  isn't 
funny.  I  had  one  once  and  it  made  me  almost  sick." 

"Um-hm.  W-e-e-11,  Gabe  Bearse  makes  'most  everybody 
sick.  What  set  you  thinkin'  about  him?" 

"  'Cause  I  just  met  him  on  the  way  home  and  he  acted 
so  funny.  First  he  gave  me  a  stick  of  candy." 

Mr.  Winslow  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"What?"  he  cried.  "He  gave  you  a  stick  of  candy? 
Gave  it  to  you?" 

"Yes.  He  said:  'Here,  little  girl,  don't  you  like  candy?' 
And  when  I  said  I  did  he  gave  me  a  stick,  the  striped  pep- 
permirt  kind  it  was.  I'd  have  saved  a  bite  for  you,  Uncle 
Jed,  only  I  and  the  rest  ate  it  all  before  I  remembered.  I'm 
awfully  sorry." 

"That's  all  right.  Striped  candy  don't  agree  with  me 
very  well,  anyway;  I'm  liable  to  swallow  the  stripes  cross- 
ways,  I  guess  likely.  But  tell  me,  did  Gabe  look  wild  or  out 
of  his  head  when  he  gave  it  to  you?" 

"Why,  no.  He  just  looked — oh — oh,  you  know,  Uncle 
Jed" — wytfer'ous — that's  how  he  looked,  wy^ter'ous." 

"Hum!  Well,  I'm  glad  to  know  he  wan't  crazy.  I've 
known  him  a  good  many  years  and  this  is  the  first  time  I 
ever  knew  him  to  give  anybody  anything  worth  while. 
When  I  went  to  school  with  him  he  gave  me  the  measles,  I 
remember,  but  even  then  they  was  only  imitation — the  Ger 
man  kind.  And  now  he's  givin'  away  candy:  Tut:  tut! 


282  "SHAVINGS" 


No  wonder  he  looked — what  was  it? — mysterious.  .  .  . 
Hum.  .  .  .  Well,  he  wanted  somethin*  for  it,  didn't  he? 
What  was  it?" 

"Why,  he  just  wanted  to  know  if  I'd  heard  Uncle  Charlie 
say  anything  about  a  lot  of  money  being  gone  up  to  the 
bank.  He  said  he  had  heard  it  was  ever  and  ever  so  much 
— a  hundred  hundred  dollars — or  a  thousand  dollars,  or 
something — I  don't  precactly  remember,  but  it  was  a  great, 
big  lot.  And  he  wanted  to  know  if  Uncle  Charlie  had  said 
how  much  it  was  and  what  had  become  of  it  and — and 
everything.  When  I  said  Uncle  Charlie  hadn't  said  a  word 
he  looked  so  sort  of  disappointed  and  funny  that  it  made 
me  laugh." 

It  did  not  make  Jed  laugh.  The  thought  that  the  knowl 
edge  of  the  missing  money  had  leaked  out  and  was  being 
industriously  spread  abroad  by  Bearse  and  his  like  was  very 
disquieting.  He  watched  Phillips  more  closely  than  be 
fore.  He  watched  Ruth,  and,  before  another  day  had 
passed,  he  had  devised  a  wonderful  plan,  a  plan  to  be  car 
ried  out  in  case  of  alarming  eventualities. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  he  sat  before  his  work 
bench,  his  knee  clasped  between  his  hands,  his  foot  swing 
ing,  and  his  thoughts  busy  with  the  situation  in  all  its 
alarming  phases.  It  had  been  bad  enough  before  this  new 
development,  bad  enough  when  the  always  present  danger 
of  Phillips'  secret  being  discovered  had  become  compli 
cated  by  his  falling  in  love  with  his  employer's  daughter. 
But  now —  Suppose  the  boy  had  stolen  the  money? 
Suppose  he  was  being  blackmailed  by  some  one  whom  he 
must  pay  or  face  exposure  ?  Jed  had  read  of  such  things ; 
they  happened  often  enough  in  novels. 

He  did  not  hear  the  door  of  the  outer  shop  open.  A 
month  or  more  ago  he  had  removed  the  bell  from  the  door. 
His  excuse  for  so  doing  had  been  characteristic. 


"SHAVINGS"  283 


"I  can't  stand  the  wear  and  tear  on  my  morals,"  he  told 
Ruth.  "I  ain't  sold  anything,  except  through  the  mail,  since 
the  winter  really  set  in.  And  yet  every  time  that  bell  rings 
I  find  myself  jumpin'  up  and  runnin'  to  wait  on  a  cus 
tomer.  When  it  turns  out  to  be  Gabe  Bearse  or  somebody 
like  him  I  swear,  and  swearin'  to  me  is  like  whiskey  to 
some  folks — comfortin'  but  dernoralizin'." 

So  the  bell  having  been  removed,  Jed  did  not  hear  the 
person  who  came  into  and  through  the  outer  shop.  The 
first  sign  of  that  person's  presence  which  reached  his  ears 
was  an  unpleasant  chuckle.  He  turned,  to  see  Mr.  Phineas 
Babbitt  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  inner  room.  And 
— this  was  the  most  annoying  and  disturbing  fact  connected 
with  the  sight — the  hardware  dealer  was  not  scowling,  he 
was  laughing.  The  Winslow  foot  fell  to  the  floor  with  a 
thump  and  its  owner  sat  up  straight. 

"He,  he,  he!"  chuckled  Phineas.  Jed  regarded  him  si 
lently.  Babbitt's  chuckle  subsided  into  a  grin.  Then  he 
spoke. 

"Well,"  he  observed,  with  sarcastic  politeness,  "how's 
the  great  Shavin's  Jedidah,  the  famous  inventor  of  whirla- 
gigs  ?  He,  he,  he !" 

Jed  slowly  shook  his  head.  "Phin,"  he  said,  "either  you 
wear  rubbers  or  I'm  gettin'  deaf,  one  or  the  other.  How 
in  the  woild  did  you  get  in  here  this  time  without  my 
hearin'  you?" 

Phineas  ignored  the  question.  He  asked  one  of  his  own. 
"How's  the  only  original  high  and  mighty  patriot  this  aft 
ernoon  ?"  he  sneered. 

The  Winslow  hand  caressed  the  Winslow  chin. 

"If  you  mean  me,  Phin,"  drawled  Jed,  "I'm  able  to  sit 
up  and  take  nourishment,  thank  you,  I  judge  you  must  be 
kind  of  ailin',  though.  Take  a  seat,  won't  you?" 


284  "SHAVINGS" 


"No,  I  won't.  I've  got  other  fish  to  fry,  bigger  fish  than 
you,  at  that." 

"Um-hm.  Well,  they  wouldn't  have  to  be  sperm  whales 
to  beat  me,  Phin.  Be  kind  of  hard  to  fry  'em  if  they  was 
too  big,  wouldn't  it?" 

"They're  goin'  to  fry,  you  hear  me.  Yes,  and  they're 
goin'  to  sizzle.  He,  he,  he!" 

Mr.  Winslow  sadly  shook  his  head.  "You  must  be 
awful  sick,  Phin,"  he  drawled.  "That's  the  third  or  fourth 
time  you've  laughed  since  you  came  in  here." 

His  visitor  stopped  chuckling  and  scowled  instead.  Jed 
beamed  gratification. 

"That's  it,"  he  said.  "Now  you  look  more  natural.  Feel- 
in'  a  little  better  .  .  .  eh?" 

The  Babbitt  chin  beard  bristled.  Its  wearer  leaned  for 
ward. 

"Shut  up,"  he  commanded.  "I  ain't  takin'  any  of  your 
sass  this  afternoon,  Shavin's,  and  I  ain't  cal'latin'  to  waste 
much  time  on  you,  neither.  You  know  where  I'm  bound 
now?  Well,  I'm  bound  up  to  the  Orham  National  Bank 
to  call  on  my  dear  friend  Sam  Hunniwell.  He,  he,  he! 
I've  got  a  little  bit  of  news  for  him.  He's  in  trouble,  they 
tell  me,  and  I  want  to  help  him  out.  .  .  .  Blast  him !" 

This  time  Jed  made  no  reply;  but  he,  too,  leaned  for 
ward  arid  his  gaze  was  fixed  upon  the  hardware  dealer's 
face.  There  was  an  expression  upon  his  own  face  which, 
when  Phineas  saw  it,  caused  the  latter  to  chuckle  once  more. 

"He,  he!"  he  laughed.  "What's  the  matter,  Shavin's? 
You  look  kind  of  scared  about  somethin'.  'Tain't  possible 
you've  known  all  along  what  I've  just  found  out?  I  won 
der  if  you  have.  Have  you?" 

Still  Jed  was  silent.     Babbit  grunted. 

"It  don't  make  any  difference  whether  you  have  or  not," 
he  said.  "But  if  you  ain't  I  wonder  what  makes  you  look 


'SHAVINGS"  285 


so  scared.  There's  nothin'  to  be  scared  about,  as  I  see.  I'm 
just  cal'latin'  to  do  our  dear  old  chummie,  Cap'n  Sam,  a 
kindness,  that's  all.  He's  lost  some  money  up  there  to  the 
bank,  I  understand.  Some  says  it's  four  thousand  dollars 
and  some  says  it's  forty.  It  don't  make  any  difference,  that 
part  don't.  Whatever  'tis  it's  missin'  and  I'm  going  to  tell 
him  where  to  find  it.  That's  real  good  of  me,  ain't  it?  Ain't 
it,  Shavin's;  eh?" 

The  little  man's  malignant  spite  and  evident  triumph 
were  actually  frightening.  And  it  was  quite  evident  that 
Jed  was  frightened.  Yet  he  made  an  effort  not  to  ap 
pear  so. 

"Yes,"  he  agreed.  "Yes,  yes,  seems  's  if  'twas.  Er — 
er Where  is  it,  Phin?" 

Phineas  burst  out  laughing.  "  'Where  is  it,  Phin  ?' "  he 
repeated,  mockingly.  "By  godfreys  mighty,  I  believe  you 
do  know  where  'tis,  Shavin's!  You  ain't  gettin'  any  of  it, 
are  you?  You  ain't  dividin'  up  with  the  blasted  jailbird?" 

Jed  was  very  pale.  His  voice  shook  as  he  essayed  to 
speak. 

"Wh-what  jailbird?"  he  faltered.  "What  do  you  mean? 
What — what  are  you  talkin'  about,  Phin?" 

"  'What  are  you  talkin'  about,  Phin  ?'  God  sakes,  hear 
him,  will  you!  All  right,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  talkin' 
about.  I'm  talkin'  about  Sam  Hunniwell's  pet,  his  new 
bookkeeper  up  there  to  the  bank.  I'm  talkin'  about  that 
stuck-up,  thievin'  hypocrite  of  a  Charlie  Phillips,  that's 
who  I'm  talkin'  about.  I  called  him  a  jailbird,  didn't  I? 
Well,  he  is.  He's  served  his  term  in  the  Connecticut  State's 
prison  for  stealin'.  And  I  know  it." 

Jed  groaned  aloud.  Here  it  was  at  last.  The  single  hair 
had  parted  and  the  sword  had  fallen.  And  now,  of  all 
times,  now!  He  made  a  pitiful  attempt  at  denial. 

"It  ain't  so,"  he  protested. 


286  "SHAVINGS" 


"Oh,  yes,  it  is  so.  Six  or  eight  weeks  ago — in  January 
'twas — there  was  a  drummer  in  my  store  sellin'  a  line  of 
tools  and  he  was  lookin'  out  of  the  window  when  this  Phil 
lips  cuss  went  by  with  Maud  Hunniwell,  both  of  'em  strut- 
tin'  along  as  if  common  folks,  honest  folks,  was  dirt  under 
their  feet.  And  when  this  drummer  see  'em  he  swore  right 
out  loud.  'Why,'  says  he,  'that's  Charlie  Phillips,  of  Mid- 
dleford,  ain't  it?'  'His  name's  Phillips  and  he  comes  from 
Connecticut  somewheres/  says  I.  'I  thought  he  was  in 
state's  prison/  says  he.  'What  do  you  mean  ?'  says  I.  And 
then  he  told  me.  'By  godfreys,'  says  I,  'if  you  can  fix  it  so's 
I  can  prove  that's  true  I'll  give  you  the  biggest  order  you 
ever  got  in  this  store.'  '  'Twon't  be  any  trouble  to  prove 
it/  says  he.  'All  you've  got  to  do  is  look  up  his  record  in 
Middleford.'  And  I've  looked  it  up.  Yes,  sir-ee,  I've 
looked  it  up.  Ho,  ho !" 

Jed,  white  and  shaking,  made  one  more  attempt. 

"It's  all  a  lie,"  he  cried.  "Of  course  it  is.  Besides,  if 
you  knew  so  much  why  have  you  been  waitin'  all  this  time 
before  you  told  it  ?  If  you  found  out  all  this — this  pack  of 
rubbish  in  January  why  did  you  wait  till  March  before 
you  told  it  ?  Humph !  That's  pretty  thin,  I— 

Phineas  interrupted. 

"Shut  up !"  he  ordered.  "Why  did  I  wait?  Well,  now, 
Shavin's,  seein'  it's  you  and  I  love  you  so,  I'll  tell  you.  At 
first  I  was  for  runnin'  right  out  in  the  street  and  hollerin' 
to  all  hands  to  come  and  hear  the  good  news  about  Sam 
Huiiniwell's  pet.  And  then  thinks  I :  'Hold  on !  don't  be  in 
any  hurry.  There's  time  enough.  Just  wait  and  see  what 
happens.  A  crook  that  steals  once  is  liable  to  try  it  again. 
Let's  wait  and  see.'  And  I  waited,  and —  He,  he,  he ! — 
he  has  tried  it  again.  Eh,  Shavin's  ?" 

Jed  was  speechless.  Babbitt,  looking  like  a  triumphantly 
vicious  Bantam  tooster,  crowed  on. 


"SHAVINGS"  287 


"You  don't  seem  to  be  quite  so  sassy  and  talky  as  you 
was  when  I  first  came  in,  Shavin's,"  he  sneered.  "Guess 
likely  you  ain't  feelin'  well  now  ...  eh?  Do  you  remem 
ber  what  I  told  you  last  time  I  was  in  this  shop?  I  told 
you  I'd  pay  my  debts  to  you  and  Sam  Hunniwell  if  I  waited 
fifty  year.  Well,  here's  Hunniwell's  pay  comin'  to  him  now. 
He's  praised  that  Phillips  thief  from  one  end  of  Ostable 
County  to  the  other,  told  how  smart  he  was  and  how  honest 
and  good  he  was  till — Lord  A'mighty,  it's  enough  to  turn 
a  decent  man's  stomach !  And  not  only  that,  but  here's 
the  feller  courtin'  his  daughter.  Oh,  ho,  ho,  ho !  that's  the 
best  of  the  whole  business.  That  was  another  thing  made 
me  hang  off  and  wait ;  I  wanted  to  see  how  the  courtin'  came 
along.  And  it's  come  along  all  right.  Everybody's  onto 
'em,  hangin'  over  each  other,  and  lookin'  soft  at  each 
other.  She's  just  fairly  heavin'  herself  at  his  head,  all 
hands  says  so.  There  ain't  been  anybody  in  this  town 
good  enough  for  her  till  he  showed  up.  And  now  it's 
comin'  out  that  he's  a  crook  and  a  jailbird !  And  he'll  be 
jailed  for  stealin'  this  time,  too.  Ho,  ho!" 

He  stopped,  out  of  breath,  to  indulge  in  another  long 
chuckle.  Jed  leaned  forward. 

"What  are  you  talkin'  about,  Phin?"  he  demanded. 
"Even  allowin'  all  this — this  rigmarole  of  yours  about — 
about  Middleford  business — was  true — 

"It  is  true  and  you  know  it  is.  I  believe  you've  known 
it  all  along." 

"I  say  allowin'  it  is,  you  haven't  any  right  to  say  Charlie 
took  this  money  from  the  Orham  bank.  You  can't  prove 
any  such  thing." 

"Aw,  be  still !  Prove — prove  nothin'.  When  a  cat  and 
a  sasser  of  milk's  shut  up  together  and  the  milk's  gone, 
you  don't  need  proof  to  know  where  it's  gone,  do  you? 
Don't  talk  to  me  about  proof,  Jed  Winslow.  Put  a  thief 


288  "SHAVINGS" 


alongside  of  money  and  anybody  knows  what'll  happen. 
Why,  you  know  what's  happened  yourself.  You  know  darn 
well  Charlie  Phillips  has  stole  the  money  that's  gone  from 
the  bank.  Down  inside  you  you're  sartin  sure  of  it ;  and  I 
don't  want  any  better  proof  of  that  than  just  your  face, 
Shavin's." 

This  time  Jed  did  not  attempt  to  contradict.  Instead  he 
tried  a  new  hazard. 

"Phin,"  he  pleaded,  "don't  be  too  hard.  Just  think  of 
what'll  happen  if  you  come  out  with  that — that  wild-goose 
yarn  of  yours.  Think  of  Maud,  poor  girl.  You  haven't  got 
anything  against  her,  have  you?" 

"Yes,  I  have.  She's  stuck-up  and  nose  in  the  air  and 
looks  at  me  as  if  I  was  some  sort  of — of  a  bug  she  wouldn't 
want  to  step  on  for  fear  of  mussin'  up  her  shoes.  I  never 
did  like  her,  blast  her.  But  leavin'  that  all  to  one  side, 
she's  Sam  Hunniwell's  young-one  and  that's  enough  for 
me." 

"But  she's  his  only  child,  Phin." 

"Good  enough !  I  had  a  boy ;  he  was  an  only  child,  too, 
you'll  remember.  Where  is  he  now?  Out  somewheres 
where  he  don't  belong,  fightin'  and  bein'  killed  to  help  Wall 
Street  get  rich.  And  who  sent  him  there?  Why,  Sam 
Hunniwell  and  his  gang.  You're  one  of  'em,  Jed  Winslow. 
To  hell  with  you,  every  one  of  you,  daughters  and  all 
hands." 

"But,  Phin — just  a  minute.  Think  of  what  it'll  mean  to 
Charlie,  poor  young  feller.  It'll  mean — 

"It'll  mean  ten  years  this  time,  and  a  good  job,  too.  You 
poor  fool,  do  you  think  you  can  talk  me  out  of  this?  You, 
you  sawdust-head?  What  do  you  think  I  came  into  your 
hole  here  for?  I  came  here  so's  you'd  know  what  I  was 
goin'  to  do  to  your  precious  chums.  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
and  have  the  fun  of  watchin'  you  squirm.  Well,  I'm  havin' 


"SHAVINGS"  289 


the  fun,  plenty  of  it.  Squirm,  you  Wall  Street  blood 
sucker,  squirm." 

He  fairly  stood  on  tiptoe  to  scream  the  last  command. 
To  a  disinterested  observer  the  scene  might  have  had  some 
elements  of  farce  comedy.  Certainly  Phineas,  his  hat  fallen 
off  and  under  foot,  his  scanty  gray  hair  tousled  and  his 
pugnacious  chin  beard  bristling,  was  funny  to  look  at.  And 
the  idea  of  calling  Jed  Winslow  a  "Wall  Street  blood 
sucker"  was  the  cream  of  burlesque.  But  to  Jed  himself 
it  was  all  tragedy,  deep  and  dreadful.  He  made  one  more 
desperate  plea. 

"But,  Phin,"  he  begged,  "think  of  his — his  sister, 
Charlie's  sister.  What'll  become  of  her  and — and  her  lit 
tle  girl  ?' 

Phineas  snorted.  "His  sister,"  he  sneered.  "All  right, 
I'll  think  about  her  all  right.  She's  another  stuck-up  that 
don't  speak  to  common  folks.  Who  knows  anything  about 
her  any  more'n  they  did  about  him?  Better  look  up  her 
record,  I  guess.  The  boy's  turned  out  to  be  a  thief ;  maybe 
the  sister'll  turn  out  to  be " 

"Stop!    Be  still!" 

Jecl  actually  shouted  it.  Babbitt  stopped,  principally  be 
cause  the  suddenness  of  the  interruption  had  startled  him 
into  doing  so.  But  the  pause  was  only  momentary.  He 
stared  at  the  interrupter  in  enraged  amazement  for  an  in 
stant  and  then  demanded:  "Stop?  Who  are  you  tellin' 
to  stop?" 

"You." 

"I  want  to  know!  Well,  I'll  stop  when  I  get  good  and 
ready  and  if  you  don't  like  it,  Shavin's,  you  can  lump  it. 
That  Phillips  kid  has  turned  out  to  be  a  thief  and,  so  far 
as  anybody  'round  here  knows,  his  sister  may  be — 

"Stop !"  Again  Jed  shouted  it ;  and  this  time  he  rose  to 
his  feet.  Phineas  glared  at  him. 


290  "SHAVINGS" 


"Humph!"  he  grunted.  "You'll  make  me  stop,  I  pre 
sume  likely." 

"Yes." 

"Is  that  so?" 

"Yes,  it's  got  to  be  so.  Look  here,  Phin,  I  realize  you're 
mad  and  don't  care  much  what  you  say,  but  there's  a  limit, 
you  know.  It's  bad  enough  to  hear  you  call  poor  Charlie 
names,  but  when  you  start  in  on  Ruth — on  Mrs.  Armstrong, 
I  mean — that's  too  much.  You've  got  to  stop." 

This  speech  was  made  quietly  and  with  all  the  customary 
Winslow  deliberation  and  apparent  calm,  but  there  was 
one  little  slip  in  it  and  that  slip  Babbitt  was  quick  to  notice. 

"Oh,  my!"  he  sneered.  "Ruth's  what  we  call  her,  eh? 
Ruth !  Got  so  chummy  we  call  each  other  by  our  first 
names.  Ruthie  and  Jeddie,  I  presume  likely.  Aw,  haw, 
haw !" 

JH's  pallor  was,  for  the  moment,  succeeded  by  a  vivid 
crimson.  He  stammered.  Phineas  burst  into  another 
scornful  laugh. 

"Haw,  haw,  haw!"  he  crowed.  "She  lets  him  call  her 
Ruth.  Oh,  my  Lord  A'mighty!  Let's  Shavin's  Winslow 
call  her  that.  Well,  I  guess  I  sized  her  up  all  right.  She 
must  be  about  on  her  brother's  leVel.  A  thief  and " 

"Shut  up,  Phin!" 

"Shut  up  ?    You  tell  me  to  shut  up !" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  won't.  Ruth  Armstrong!  What  do  I  care 
for- 

The  speech  was  not  finished.  Jed  had  taken  one  long 
stride  to  where  Babbitt  was  standing,  seized  the  furious  lit 
tle  creature  by  the  right  arm  with  one  hand  and  with  the 
other  covered  his  open  mouth,  covered  not  only  the  mouth, 
but  a  large  section  of  face  as  well. 

"You  keep  quiet,  Phin,"  he  drawled.    "I  want  to  think." 


'SHAVINGS"  291 


Phineas  struggled  frantically.     He  managed  to  get  one 
corner  of  his  mouth  from  behind  that  mammoth  hand. 
"Ruth    Armstrong!"    he    screamed.      "Ruth    Armstrong 

«c » 

1O 

The  yell  died  away  to  a  gurgle,  pinched  short  by  the 
Winslow  fingers.  Then  the  door  leading  to  the  kitchen, 
the  door  behind  the  pair,  opened  and  Ruth  Armstrong  her 
self  came  in.  She  was  pale  and  she  stared  with  frightened 
eyes  at  the  little  man  struggling  in  the  tall  one's  clutch. 

"Oh,  Jed,"  she  breathed,  "what  is  it?" 

Jed  did  not  reply.     Phineas  could  not. 

"Oh,  Jed,  what  is  it?"  repeated  Ruth.  "I  heard  him 
shouting  my  name.  I  was  in  the  yard  and  I  heard  it.  ... 
Oh,  Jed,  what  is  it  ?" 

Babbitt  at  last  managed  to  wriggle  partially  clear.  He  was 
crazy  with  rage,  but  he  was  not  frightened.  Fear  of  physi 
cal  violence  was  not  in  his  make-up ;  he  was  no  coward. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  he  screamed.  "I'll  tell  you  what 
it  is:  I've  found  out  about  you  and  that  stuck-up  crook  of 
a  brother  of  yours.  He's  a  thief.  That's  what  he  is,  a 
thief  and  a  jailbird.  He  stole  at  Middleford  and  now  he's 
stole  again  here.  And  Jed  Winslow  and  you  are " 

He  got  no  further,  being  once  more  stoppered  like  a 
bottle  by  the  Winslow  grip  and  the  Winslow  hand.  He 
wriggled  and  fought,  but  he  was  pinned  and  helpless,  hands, 
feet  and  vocal  organs.  Jed  did  not  so  much  as  look  at  him ; 
he  looked  only  at  Ruth. 

Her  pallor  had  increased.     She  was  trembling. 

"Oh,  Jed,"  she  cried,  "what  does  he  mean?  What  does 
he  mean  by — by  'again — here'?" 

Jed's  grip  tightened  over  his  captive's  mouth. 

"He  doesn't  mean  anything,"  he  declared,  stoutly.  "He 
don't  know  what  he  means." 


292  "SHAVINGS" 


From  behind  the  smothering  fingers  came  a  defiant  mum 
ble.  Ruth  leaned  forward. 

"Jed,"  she  begged,  "does  he — does  he  know  about — 
about " 

Jed  nodded.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  swayed  slightly, 
but  she  did  not  collapse  or  give  way. 

"And  he  is  going  to  tell?"  she  whispered. 

A  furious  mumble  from  behind  the  fingers  and  a  venom 
ous  flash  from  the  Babbitt  eyes  were  answers  sufficient. 

"Oh,  Jed,"  she  pleaded,  "what  shall  we  do?" 

For  the  instant  a  bit  of  the  old  Jed  came  to  the  surface. 
His  lip  twitched  grimly  as  he  looked  down  at  the  crimson 
face  above  his  own  hand. 

"I  ain't  sartin — yet,"  he  drawled.  "How  do  you  start  in 
killin'  a — a  snappin'  turtle?  I  ain't  tackled  the  job  since  I 
was  a  boy." 

Phineas  looked  as  if  he  could  have  furnished  some  points 
on  the  subject.  His  eyes  were  bulging.  Then  all  three 
heard  the  door  of  the  outer  shop  open. 

Ruth  looked  desperately  about  her.  She  hastened  to  the 
door  by  which  she  had  entered.  "There's  some  one  com 
ing,"  she  whispered. 

Jed  glanced  over  his  shoulder.  "You  go  away,"  he  whis 
pered  in  reply.  "Go  away,  Ruth.  Hurry !" 

Her  hand  was  on  the  latch  of  the  door,  but  before  she 
could  open  it  the  other  door,  that  leading  from  the  outer 
shop,  opened  and  Leonard  Grover  came  in.  He  stared  at 
the  picture  before  him — at  Ruth  Armstrong's  pale,  fright 
ened  face,  at  Babbitt  struggling  in  his  captor's  clutch,  at 
Jed. 

"Why!"  he  exclaimed.    "What  is  it?" 

No  one  answered.  Phineas  was  the  only  one  who  stirred. 
He  seemed  anxious  to  turn  the  tableau  into  a  moving  pir- 


"And  he  is  going  to  tell?"  she  whispered. 


'SHAVINGS"  293 


ttire,  but  his  success  was  limited.  The  Major  turned  to 
Ruth. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  again. 

She  was  silent.  Grover  repeated  his  question,  addressing 
Jed  this  time. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  sharply.  "What  is  the  trouble  here? 
What  has  that  fellow  been  doing?" 

Jed  looked  down  at  his  wriggling  captive.  "He's — 
he's —  ''  he  stammered.  "Well,  you  see,  Major,  he  ... 
Hum  .  .  .  well,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  tell  you." 

"You  can't  tell  me!  What  on  earth Mrs.  Arm 
strong,  will  you  tell  me?" 

She  looked  at  him  appealingly,  pitifully,  but  she  shook 
her  head. 

"I— I  can't,"  she  said. 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Then,  with  a  shrug, 
he  turned  to  the  door. 

"Pardon  me  for  interrupting,"  he  observed.  "Good  after 
noon." 

It  was  Ruth  who  detained  him.  "Oh,  please !"  she  cried, 
involuntarily.  He  turned  again. 

"You  wish  me  to  stay?"  he  asked. 

"Oh— oh,  I  don't  know.     I- 

She  had  not  finished  the  sentence;  she  was  falteringly 
trying  to  finish  it  when  Mr.  Babbitt  took  the  center  of  the 
stage.  Once  more  he  managed  to  free  himself  from  Jed's 
grip  and  this  time  he  darted  across  the  shop  and  put  the 
workbench  between  himself  and  his  enemy. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  he  screamed.  "I've  found  out 
some  things  they  don't  want  anybody  to  know,  that's  what. 
I've  found  out  what  sort  of  folks  they  are,  she  and  her 
brother.  He's  a  common Let  go  of  me !  By " 

The  scream  ended  in  another  mumble.  Jed  had  swarmed 
over  the  bench  and  once  more  pinned  him  fast. 


294  "SHAVINGS" 


"You'll  have  to  excuse  me,  Major,"  he  panted.  "I — I 
can't  help  it.  This  feller's  got  what  ailed  the  parrot — he 
talks  too  darn  much.  He's  got  to  stop !  He's  got  to !" 

But  Grover  was  paying  little  attention.  He  was  looking 
at  Ruth. 

"Mrs.  Armstrong,"  he  asked,  "has  he  been  saying — say 
ing  things  he  should  not  say  about  you?  Is  that  the 
trouble?" 

She  answered  without  returning  his  look. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper.  "About  me  and — 
and  my Yes,  that  was  it." 

The  Major's  eyes  flashed.  "Let  go  of  him,  Jed,"  he  com 
manded.  Jed  hesitated. 

"If  I  do  he'll  blow  up  again,"  he  said. 

"Let  go  of  him." 

Jed  let  go.  Phineas  caught  his  breath  and  opened  his 
mouth.  Major  Grover  stepped  in  front  of  him  and  leveled 
a  forefinger  straight  at  the  crimson  Babbitt  nose. 

"Stop!"  he  ordered,  sharply. 

"Stop?  What  right  have  you  got  to  tell  me  to  stop? 
By » 

"Stop!  Listen  to  me.  I  don't  know  what  you've  been 
saying  about  this  lady ' 

"I  ain't  been  saying  anything,  except  what  I  know,  and 
that  is  that— 

"Stop!  And  I  don't  care.  But  I  know  about  you,  sir, 
because  it  is  my  business  to  know.  The  Government  has 
had  its  eye  on  you  for  some  time  and  it  has  asked  me  to 
look  into  your  record.  I  have  looked  into  it.  You  are  not 
a  very  dangerous  person,  Mr.  Babbitt,  but  that  is  because 
of  your  lack  of  ability  to  harm,  not  because  of  any  good  will 
on  your  part  toward  the  'United  States.  You  have  done 
all  the  harm  you  could,  you  have  talked  sedition,  you've 
written  and  talked  against  the  draft,  you  have  corre- 


"SHAVINGS"  295 


sponded    with  German  agents  in  Boston  and  New  York." 

"That's  a  lie." 

"No,  it's  the  truth.  I  have  copies  of  your  letters  and 
the  Government  has  the  originals.  They  are  not  very  dan 
gerous,  but  that  is  because  you  are  not  big  enough  to  be 
dangerous.  The  authorities  have  left  you  pretty  much  to 
my  discretion,  sir.  It  rests  with  me  whether  to  have  you 
taken  in  charge  and  held  for  trial  or  merely  to  wa^n  you 
and  watch  you.  Very  well.  I  warn  you  now  and  you 
may  be  certain  that  you  are  watched.  You'll  stop  your 
silly,  seditious  talk  at  once  and  you'll  write  no  more  letters 
like  those  I  have  seen.  If  you  do  it  will  be  a  prison  term 
for  you  as  sure  as  I  stand  here.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

Apparently  Phineas  understood.  His  face  was  not  as 
red  as  it  had  been  and  there  was  a  different  look  in  his  eye. 
Jed's  rough  handling  had  not  frightened  him,  but  the 
Major's  cold,  incisive  tones  and  the  threat  of  a  term  in 
prison  had  their  effect.  Nevertheless  he  could  still  bluster. 

"You  can't  talk  to  me  that  way,"  he  sputtered.  "I — I 
ain't  scared  of  you  even  if  you  are  all  dressed  up  in  fuss 
and  feathers  like  a  hand-organ  monkey.  This  is  a  free 
country." 

"Yes,  it  is.  For  decent  people  it  is  absolutely  free.  The 
other  sort  have  to  be  put  where  they  can't  interfere  with 
that  freedom.  Whether  you,  Babbit,  remain  free  or  not 
depends  entirely  upon  what  you  do — and  say.  Is  this  per 
fectly  clear?" 

Phineas  did  not  answer  the  question  directly.  For  a 
moment  he  stood  there,  his  fists  clenching  and  unclenching, 
and  his  eyes  snapping.  Then  he  turned  away. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  sullenly.  "I  hear  what  you  say. 
Now  I  can  go,  I  presume  likely — unless  you've  got  some 
more  lyin'  and  bullyin'  to  do.  Get  out  of  my  way,  Shavin's, 
you  fool." 


296  "SHAVINGS" 


But  Grover  had  not  finished  with  him. 

"Just  a  minute,"  he  said.  "There  is  one  thing  more.  I 
don't  know  what  it  is,  and  I  don't  wish  to  know,  but  evi 
dently  you  have  been  saying,  or  threatening  to  say,  some 
thing  concerning  this  lady,  Mrs.  Armstrong,  which  should 
not  be  said.  You  are  not  to  mention  her  name.  Do  you 
understand  that  ?" 

The  little  hardware  dealer  almost  jumped  from  the  floor 
as  his  rage  again  got  the  better  of  him. 

"The  blazes  I  ain't!"  he  shrieked.  "Who  says  I  ain't? 
Is  that  any  of  your  business,  Mr. — Mr.  Brass  Monkey? 
What's  you  or  the  United  States  gov'ment  got  to  say  about 
my  mentionin'  names  ?  To  the  devil  with  the  United  States 
and  you,  too  f  You  hear  that  ?" 

Major  Grover  smiled.  "Yes,"  he  said,  quietly.  "I  hear 
it.  So  does  Mr.  Winslow  here,  and  Mrs.  Armstrong.  They 
can  be  called  as  witnesses  if  it  is  necessary.  You  had  bet 
ter  let  me  finish,  Babbitt.  As  I  say,  you  are  not  to  mention 
Mrs.  Armstrong's  name,  you  are  not  to  repeat  or  circulate 
any  scandal  or  story  reflecting  upon  her  character " 

"Or  her  brother's  either,"  put  in  Jed,  eagerly.  "Tell  him 
he  can't  talk  against  Charlie,  either." 

"Certainly.  You  are  not  to  repeat  or  circulate  anything 
derogatory  to  the  character  of  either  Mrs.  Armstrong  or 
Mr.  Phillips.  In  any  way  derogatory." 

Phineas  tossed  both  fists  in  the  air. 

"You  can't  order  me  around  that  way,"  he  yelled.  "Be 
sides,  if  you  knew  what  I  know  about  that  gang  you'd " 

"Hush!  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  you  know — or 
pretend  to  know.  As  for  ordering  you  about — well,  we'll 
see." 

"I  tell  you  you  can't.    You  ain't  got  the  right." 

"Perhaps  not.  But  I  have  the  right  to  use  my  discre 
tion — my  judgment  in  your  case.  And  my  judgment  is  that 


"SHAVINGS"  297 


if  I  hear  one  scandalous  story  about  town  reflecting  upon 
the  character  of  Mrs.  Armstrong  or  her  brother — yes,  or 
her  friends — I  shall  know  who  is  responsible  and  I  shall 
have  you  arrested  and  held  for  trial  as  an  enemy  of  the 
country.  You  condemned  the  United  States  to  the  devil 
only  a  moment  ago  in  my  hearing.  Do  you  think  that 
would  help  you  in  court,  Babbitt  ?  I  don't." 

The  little  man's  face  was  a  sight.  As  Jed  said  after 
ward,  he  looked  as  if  he  would  have  enjoyed  biting  his  way 
out  of  the  shop. 

"Huh!"  he  snarled;  "I  see.  You're  all  in  together,  the 
whole  lot  of  you.  And  you,  you  brass  buttons,  you're  ucin* 
your  soldierin'  job  to  keep  your  friends  out  of  trouble.  .  .  . 
Huh!  Yes,  that's  what  you're  doin'." 

The  Major's  smile  was  provokingly  cool. 

"Perhaps  I  am,"  he  admitted.  "But  I  shouldn't  advise 
you  to  forget  what  I  have  just  told  you,  Babbitt.  I  mean 
every  word  of  it." 

It  was  Ruth  who  spoke  next.  She  uttered  a  startled  ex 
clamation. 

"There's  some  one  coming  up  the  walk,"  she  cried.  "Lis 
ten." 

Sure  enough,  heavy  footsteps  sounded  upon  the  walk 
leading  from  the  front  gate  to  the  shop.  Jed  ran  to  the 
window. 

"It's  Sam,"  he  exclaimed.  "Good  heavens  above!  It's 
Sam  Hunniwell,  of  all  folks — now !" 

Grover  looked  from  one  face  to  the  other. 

"Is  there  any  particular  reason  why  Captain  Hunniwell 
shouldn't  come?"  he  asked. 

Jed  and  Ruth  were  silent.  Phineas  chuckled  malevo 
lently.  Jed  heard  the  chuckle  and  spoke. 

"  'Twas — 'twas  Cap'n  Sam  he  was  goin'  to  tell,"  he  whis- 


298  "SHAVINGS" 


pered,  pointing  at  Babbitt.  Ruth  caught  her  breath  with  a 
frightened  gasp. 

Grover  nodded.  "Oh,  I  see,"  he  said.  "Well,  I  don't 
think  he  will.  He'll  be  more — more — careful,  I'm  sure. 
Babbitt,  remember." 

They  heard  the  captain  rattle  the  latch  of  the  front  door. 
Ruth  opened  the  door  behind  her.  "I  must  go,  Jed/'  she 
whispered.  "I — I  can't  stay." 

The  Major  turned.  "I'll  go  with  you,  Mrs.  Armstrong," 
he  said.  But  Jed  leaned  forward. 

"I — I  wish  you'd  stay,  Major  Grover,"  he  whispered. 
"I — I'd  like  to  have  you  stay  here  just  a  minute  or  two." 

Grover  hesitated.  Ruth  went  out,  closing  the  living-room 
door  after  her.  A  moment  later  Captain  Sam  came  into 
the  workshop. 

"Hello,  Jed!"  he  hailed.  "Why,  hello,  Major! 
What —  Then  for  the  first  time  he  saw  and  recognized 
the  third  member  of  the  group.  He  looked  at  Phineas  and 
the  little  man  looked  at  him.  The  looks  were  studies  in 
expression. 

"Humph!"  grunted  Captain  Sam.  "What  in  time ? 

.  .  .  Humph !  .  .  .  Well,  Phin,  you  look  awful  glad  to  see 
me,  I  must  say.  Gracious  king,  man,  don't  glower  at  me 
like  that!  I  haven't  done  anything  to  you,  if  you'd  only 
have  sense  enough  to  believe  it." 

Babbitt  did  not  answer.  He  looked  as  if  he  were  going 
to  burst.  Major  Grover  was  regarding  him  with  a  whim 
sical  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"Mr.  Babbitt  and  I  have  just  been  discussing  some  points 
connected  with  the  war,"  he  observed.  "I  don't  know  that 
we  agree,  exactly,  but  we  have — well,  we  have  reached  an 
understanding." 

The  captain  was  plainly  puzzled.  "Humph !"  he  grunted. 
"You  don't  say!  ...  Well,  I Eh,  what  is  it,  Jed?" 


'SHAVINGS"  299 


If  any  one  had  been  watching  Jed  particularly  during 
the  recent  few  minutes  they  might  have  observed  in  his 
face  the  dawning  of  an  idea  and  the  changing  of  that  idea 
into  a  set  purpose.  The  idea  seemed  to  dawn  the  moment 
after  he  saw  Captain  Hunniwell  coming  up  the  walk.  It 
had  become  a  purpose  by  the  time  the  captain  rattled  the 
latch.  While  Captain  Sam  and  the  major  were  speaking 
he  had  hastened  to  the  old  desk  standing  by  the  wall  and 
was  rummaging  in  one  of  the  drawers.  Now  he  came  for 
ward. 

"Sam "  he  began,  but  broke  off  to  address  Mr.  Bab 
bitt,  who  was  striding  toward  the  door.  "Don't  go,  Phin," 
he  cried.  "I'd  rather  you  didn't  go  just  this  minute.  I'd 
like  to  have  you  stay.  Please." 

Phineas  answered  over  his  shoulder.  The  answer  was  a 
savage  snarl  and  a  command  for  "Shavings"  to  mind  his 
own  business.  Grover  spoke  then. 

"Mr.  Babbitt,"  he  suggested,  "don't  you  think  you  had 
better  stay  a  moment?  Mr.  Winslow  seems  to  wish  it." 

Babbitt  reached  for  the  handle  of  the  door,  but  Grover's 
hand  was  lightly  laid  on  his  shoulder. 

"Do  stay,  Mr.  Babbitt,"  begged  the  Major,  sweetly.  "To 
oblige  me,  you  know." 

Phineas  swore  with  such  vehemence  that  the  oath  might 
have  been  heard  across  the  road.  What  he  might  have  said 
thereafter  is  a  question.  At  that  moment  his  attention  was 
caught  by  something  which  Jed  Winslow  had  in  his  hands 
and  he  stayed  to  stare  at  it.  The  something  was  a  bundle 
of  crumpled  banknotes. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

JED  came  forward,  the  roll  of  bills  in  his  hand.  H« 
seemed  quite  oblivious  of  the  Babbitt  stare,  or,  for 
that  matter,  of  the  complete  silence  which  had  so  sud 
denly  fallen  upon  the  group  in  the  shop.  He  came  for 
ward,  smoothing  the  crumpled  notes  with  fingers  which 
shook  a  little.  He  stopped  in  front  of  Captain  Hunniwell, 
The  captain  was  gazing  at  him  and  at  the  money.  Jed  did 
not  meet  his  friend's  eye ;  he  continued  to  smooth  the  bank 
notes.  Captain  Sam  spoke  first. 

"What's  that?"  he  demanded.     "What  money's  that?" 

Jed's  fingers  moved  back  and  forth  across  the  bills  and 
he  answered  without  looking  up.  He  seemed  much  em 
barrassed. 

"Sam,"  he  faltered.  "Sam — er — you  remember  you 
told  me  you'd — er — lost  some  money  a  spell  ago?  Some — 
er — money  you'd  collected  over  to  Wapatomac.  You  re 
member  that,  don't  you?" 

Captain  Sam  looked  at  him  in  puzzled  surprise.  "Re 
member  it?"  he  repeated.  "Course  I  remember  it.  Gra 
cious  king,  'tain't  likely  I'd  forget  it,  is  it?" 

Jed  nodded.  "No-o,"  he  drawled,  solemnly.  "No, 
course  you  couldn't.  'Twas  four  hundred  dollars  you  was 
short,  wan't  it?" 

The  Captain's  puzzled  look  was  still  there. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.     "What  of  it?" 

"Why — why,  just  this,  Sam:  I — I  want  it  to  be  plain,  you 
understand.  I  want  Major  Grover  and  Phineas  here  to 
understand  the — the  whole  of  it.  There's  a  lot  of  talk, 

300 


'SHAVINGS"  301 


seems  so,  around  town  about  money  bein'  missin'  from  the 
bank " 

Captain  Sam  interrupted.  "The  deuce  there  is !"  he  ex 
claimed.  "That's  the  first  I've  heard  of  any  such  talk. 
Who's  talkin'?" 

"Oh,  a — a  good  many  folks,  I  judge  likely.  Gabe  Bearse 
asked  Babbie  about  it,  and  Phin  here  he — 

"Eh?"  The  captain  turned  to  face  his  old  enemy.  "So 
you've  been  talkin',  have  you?"  he  asked. 

Mr.  Babbitt  leaned  forward.  "I  ain't  begun  my  talkin' 
yet,  Sam  Hunniwell,"  he  snarled.  "When  I  do  you'll " 

He  stopped.     Grover  had  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Sshh !"  said  the  Major  quietly.  To  the  absolute  amaze 
ment  of  Captain  Sam,  Phineas  subsided.  His  face  was 
blazing  red  and  he  seemed  to  be  boiling  inside,  but  he  did 
not  say  another  word.  Jed  seized  the  opportunity  to  con 
tinue. 

"I — I  just  want  to  get  this  all  plain,  Sam,"  he  put  in, 
hastily.  "I  just  want  it  so  all  hands'll  understand  it,  that's 
all.  You  went  over  to  Sylvester  Sage's  in  Wapatomac  and 
he  paid  you  four  hundred  dollars.  When  you  got  back 
home  here  fourteen  hundred  of  it  was  missin'.  No,  no,  I 
don't  mean  that.  I  mean  you  couldn't  find  fourteen  hun 
dred — I  mean " 

The  captain's  patience  was,  as  he  himself  often  said, 
moored  with  a  short  cable.  The  cable  parted  now. 

"Gracious  king!"  he  snapped.  "Jed,  if  that  yarn  you're 
tryin'  to  spin  was  wound  in  a  ball  and  a  kitten  was  playin' 
with  it  you  couldn't  be  worse  snarled  up.  What  he's 
tryin'  to  tell  you,"  he  explained,  turning  to  Grover,  "is  that 
the  other  day,  when  I  was  over  to  Wapatomac,  old  Sylves 
ter  Sage  over  there  paid  me  fourteen  hundred  dollars  in 
cash  and  when  I  got  back  here  all  I  could  find  was  a  thou- 


3©2  "SHAVING'S" 


sand.  That's  what  you're  tryin'  to  say,  ain't  it?"  turning 
to  Jed  once  more. 

"Yes — yes,  that's  it,  Sam.     That's  it." 

"Course  it's  it.  But  what  do  you  want  me  to  say  it  for  ? 
And  what  are  you  runnin'  around  with  all  that  money  in 
your  hands  for?  That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

Jed  swallowed  hard.  "Well,  Sam,"  he  stammered,  "that 
— that's  what  I  was  goin'  to  tell  you.  You  see — you  see, 
that's  the  four  hundred  you  lost.  I — I  found  it." 

Major  Grover  looked  surprised.  Phineas  Babbitt  looked 
more  surprised.  But,  oddly  enough,  it  was  Captain  Sam 
Hunniwell  who  appeared  to  be  most  surprised  by  his 
friend's  statement.  The  captain  seemed  absolutely  dumb 
founded. 

"You — you  what?"  he  cried. 

Jed  smoothed  the  bills  in  his  hand.  "I  found  it,  Sam," 
he  repeated.  "Here  'tis — here." 

He  extended  the  bundle  of  banknotes.  The  captain 
made  no  move  to  take  them.  Jed  held  them  a  little  nearer. 

"You — you'd  better  take  it,  Sam,"  he  urged.  "It  might 
get  lost  again,  you  know." 

Still  Captain  Sam  made  no  move.  He  looked  from  the 
bills  in  Jed's  hands  to  Jed's  face  and  back  again.  The  ex 
pression  on  Mis  own  face  was  a  strange  one. 

"You  found  it,"  he  repeated.     "You  did  ?" 

"Yes — yes,  I  found  it,  Sam.     Just  happened  to." 

"Where  did  you  find  it?" 

"Over  yonder  behind  that  pile  of  boards.  You  know 
you  said  the  money  was  in  your  overcoat  pocket  and — 
and  when  you  came  in  here  on  your  way  back  from  Syl 
vester's  you  hove  your  coat  over  onto  those  boards.  I  pre 
sume  likely  the — the  money  must  have  fell  out  of  the 
pocket  then.  You  see,  don't  you,  Sam?" 

The  tone  in  which  the  question  was  asked  was  one,  al- 


"SHAVINGS"  303 


most,  of  pleading.  He  appeared  very,  very  anxious  to  have 
the  captain  "see."  But  the  latter  seemed  as  puzzled  as 
ever. 

"Here's  the  money,  Sam,"  urged  Jed.  "Take  it,  won't 
you?" 

Captain  Sam  took  it,  but  that  is  all  he  did.  He  did  not 
count  it  or  put  it  in  his  pocket.  He  merely  took  it  and 
looked  at  the  man  who  had  given  it  to  him. 

Jed's  confusion  seemed  to  increase.  "Don't  you — don't 
you  think  you'd  better  count  it,  Sam?"  he  stammered.  "If 
— if  the  Major  here  and  Phin  see  you  count  it  and — and 
know  it's  ail  right,  then  they'll  be  able  to  contradict  the 
stories  that's  goin'  around  about  so  much  bein'  stolen,  you 
know." 

The  captain  grunted. 

"Stolen?"  he  repeated.  "You  said  folks  were  taikin' 
about  money  bein'  lost.  Have  they  been  sayin'  'twas 
stolen?" 

It  was  Grover  who  answered.  "I  haven't  heard  any 
such  rumors,"  he  said.  "I  believe  Lieutenant  Rayburn  said 
he  heard  some  idle  report  about  the  bank's  having  lost  a 
sum  of  money,  but  there  was  no  hint  at  dishonesty." 

Captain  Sam  turned  to  Mr.  Babbitt. 

"You  haven't  heard  any  yarns  about  money  bein'  stolen 
at  the  bank,  have  you?"  he  demanded. 

Before  Phineas  could  answer  Grover's  hand  again  fell 
lightly  on  his  shoulder. 

"I'm  sure  he  hasn't,"  observed  the  Major.  The  captain 
paid  no  attention  to  him. 

"Have  you?"  he  repeated,  addressing  Babbitt. 

The  little  man  shook  from  head  to  foot.  The  glare  with 
which  he  regarded  his  hated  rival  might  have  frightened  a 
timid  person.  But  Captain  Sam  Hunniwell  was  distinctly 
not  timid. 


304  "SHAVINGS" 


"Have  you?"  he  asked,  for  the  third  time. 

Phineas'  mouth  opened,  but  Grover's  fingers  tightened 
on  his  shoulder  and  what  came  out  of  that  mouth  was 
merely  a  savage  repetition  of  his  favorite  retort,  "None  of 
your  darned  business." 

"Yes,  'tis  my  business,"  began  Captain  Sam,  but  Jed  in 
terrupted. 

"I  don't  see  as  it  makes  any  difference  whether  he's  heard 
anything  or  not,  Sam,"  he  suggested  eagerly.  "No  matter 
what  he's  heard,  it  ain't  so,  because  there  couldn't  have  been 
anything  stolen.  There  was  only  four  hundred  missin'. 
I've  found  that  and  you've  got  it  back;  so  that  settles  it, 
don't  it?" 

"It  certainly  would  seem  as  if  it  did,"  observed  Grover. 
"Congratulations,  Captain  Hunniwell.  You're  fortunate 
that  so  honest  a  man  found  the  money,  I  should  say." 

The  captain  merely  grunted.  The  odd  expression  was 
still  on  his  face.  Jed  turned  to  the  other  two. 

"Er — er — Major  Grover,"  he  said,  "if — if  you  hear  any 
yarns  now  about  money  bein'  missin' — or — or  stolen  you 
can  contradict  'em  now,  can't  you?" 
"I  certainly  can — and  will." 

"And  you'll  contradict  'em,  too,  eh,  Phin?" 

Babbitt  jerked  his  shoulder  from  Grover's  grasp  and 
strode  to  the  door. 

"Let  me  out  of  here,"  he  snarled.     "I'm  goin'  home." 

No  one  offered  to  detain  him,  but  as  he  threw  open  the 
door  to  the  outer  shop  Leonard  Grover  followed  him. 

"Just  a  moment,  Babbitt,"  he  said.  "I'll  go  as  far  as  the 
gate  with  you,  if  you  don't  mind.  Good  afternoon,  Jed. 
Good  afternoon,  Captain,  and  once  more — congratulations. 
.  .  .  Here,  Babbitt,  wait  a  moment." 

Phineas  did  not  wait,  but  even  so  his  pursuer  caught 
him  before  he  reached  the  gate.  Jed,  who  had  run  to  the 


'SHAVINGS"  305 


window,  saw  the  Major  and  the  hardware  dealer  in  ear 
nest  conversation.  The  former  seemed  to  be  doing  most 
of  the  talking.  Then  they  separated,  Grover  remaining  by 
the  gate  and  Phineas  striding  off  in  the  direction  of  his 
shop.  He  was  muttering  to  himself  and  his  face  was  work 
ing  with  emotion.  Between  baffled  malice  and  suppressed 
hatred  he  looked  almost  as  if  he  were  going  to  cry.  Even 
amid  his  own  feelings  of  thankfulness  and  relief  Jed  felt 
a  pang  of  pity  for  Phineas  Babbitt.  The  little  man  was 
the  incarnation  of  spite  and  envy  and  vindictive  bitterness, 
but  Jed  was  sorry  for  him,  just  as  he  would  have  been 
sorry  for  a  mosquito  which  had  bitten  him.  He  might  be 
obliged  to  crush  the  creature,  but  he  would  feel  that  it 
was  not  much  to  blame  for  the  bite;  both  it  and  Phineas 
could  not  help  being  as  they  were — they  were  made  that 
way. 

He  heard  an  exclamation  at  his  shoulder  and  turned  to 
find  that  Captain  Sam  had  also  been  regarding  the  parting 
at  the  gate. 

"Humph!"  grunted  the  captain.  "Phin  looks  as  if  he'd 
been  eatin'  somethin'  that  didn't  set  any  too  good.  What's 
started  him  to  obeyin'  orders  from  that  Grover  man  all 
to  once?  I  always  thought  he  hated  soldierin'  worse  than 
a  hen  hates  a  swim.  .  .  .  Humph!  .  .  .  Well,  that's  the 
second  queerest  thing  I've  run  across  to-day." 

Jed  changed  the  subject,  or  tried  to  change  it. 

"What's  the  first  one,  Sam?"  he  hastened  to  ask.  His 
friend  looked  at  him  for  an  instant  before  he  answered. 

"The  first  one?"  he  repeated,  slowly.  "Well,  I'll  tell 
you,  Jed.  The  first  one — and  the  queerest  of  all — is  your 
findin'  that  four  hundred  dollars." 

Jed  was  a  good  deal  taken  aback.  He  had  not  expected 
an  answer  of  that  kind.  His  embarrassment  and  confusion 
returned, 


306  "SHAVINGS" 


"Why — why,"  he  stammered,  "is — is  that  funny,  Sam? 
I  don't — I  don't  know's  I  get  what  you  mean.  What's — 
what  is  there  funny  about  my  findin'  that  money?" 

The  captain  stepped  across  the  shop,  pulled  forward  a 
chair  and  seated  himself.  Jed  watched  him  anxiously. 

"I — I  don't  see  anything  very  funny  about  my  findin' 
that  money,  Sam,"  he  said,  again.  Captain  Sam  grunted. 

"Don't  you?"  he  asked.  "Well,  maybe  my  sense  of  hu 
mor's  gettin'  cross-eyed  or — or  somethin'.  I  did  think  I 
could  see  somethin'  funny  in  it,  but  most  likely  I  was  mis 
taken.  Sit  down,  Jed,  and  tell  me  all  about  how  you 
found  it." 

Jed  hesitated.     His  hand  moved  slowly  across  his  chin. 

"Well,  now,  Sam,"  he  faltered,  "there  ain't  nothin'  to 
tell.  I  just — er — found  it,  that's  all.  .  .  .  Say,  you  ain't 
seen  that  new  gull  vane  of  mine  lately,  have  you?  I  got 
her  so  she  can  flop  her  wings  pretty  good  now." 

"Hang  the  gull  vane!  I  want  to  hear  how  you  found 
that  money.  Gracious  king,  man,  you  don't  expect  I'm 
goin'  to  take  the  gettin'  back  of  four  hundred  dollars  as 
cool  as  if  'twas  ten  cents,  do  you?  Sit  down  and  tell  me 
about  it." 

So  Jed  sat,  net  with  eagerness,  but  more  as  if  he  could 
think  of  no  excuse  for  refusing.  His  companion  tilted 
back  in  his  chair,  lit  a  cigar,  and  bade  him  heave  ahead. 

"Well,"  began  Jed,  "I — I — you  see,  Sam,  I  happened  to 
look  behind  that  heap  of  boards  there  and — 

"What  made  you  think  of  lookin'  behind  those  boards?" 

"Eh?  Why,  nothin'  'special.  I  just  happened  to  look. 
That's  where  your  coat  was,  you  know.  So  I  looked  and 
— and  there  'twas." 

"I  see.     There  'twas,  eh?    Where?" 

"Why — why,  behind  the  boards.  I  told  you  that,  you 
know." 


"SHAVINGS"  307 


"Gracious  king,  course  I  know !  You've  told  me  that 
no  less  than  ten  times.  But  where  was  it  ?  On  the  boards  ? 
On  the  floor?" 

"Eh?  ,  .  .  Oh,  .  .  .  oh,  seems  to  me  'twas  on  the 
floor." 

"Don't  you  know  'twas  on  the  floor?" 

"Why  .  .  .  why,  yes,  sartin." 

"Then  what  made  you  say  'seems  as  if  it  was  there?" 

"Oh,  .  .  .  oh,  I  don't  know.  Land  sakes,  Sam,  what 
are  you  askin'  me  all  these  questions  for?" 

"Just  for  fun,  I  guess.  I'm  interested,  naturally.  Tell 
me  some  more.  How  was  the  money — all  together,  or 
kind  of  scattered  'round?" 

"Eh  ?  ...  Oh,  all  together." 

"Sure  of  that?" 

"Course  I'm  sure  of  it.  I  can  see  it  just  as  plain  as  day, 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it.  'Twas  all  together,  in  a  heap 
like." 

"Um-hm.  The  band  that  was  round  it  had  come  off, 
then?" 

"Band?    What  band?" 

"Why,  the  paper  band  with  '$400'  on  it.  That  had  come 
off  when  it  fell  out  of  my  pocket,  I  presume  likely." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  guess  likely  it  did.  Must  have.  .  .  . 
Er — Sam,  let  me  show  you  that  gull  vane.  I  got  it  so  now 
that- 

"Hold  on  a  minute.  I'm  mighty  interested  about  your 
findin'  this  money.  It's  so — so  sort  of  unexpected,  as  you 
might  say.  If  that  band  came  off  it  must  have  broke  when 
the  money  tumbled  down  behind  the  boards.  Let's  see  if 
it  did." 

He  rose  and  moved  toward  the  pile  of  boards.  Jed  also 
rose. 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  look  for?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 


308  "SHAVINGS" 


"Why,  the  paper  band  with  the  '$400'  on  it.  I'd  like  to 
see  if  it  broke.  .  .  .  Humph !"  he  added,  peering  down  into 
the  dark  crevice  between  the  boards  and  the  wall  of  the 
shop.  "Can't  see  anything  of  it,  can  you?" 

Jed,  peering  solemnly  down,  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he 
said.  "I  can't  see  anything  of  it." 

"But  it  may  be  there,  for  all  that."  He  reached  down. 
"Humph!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  can't  touch  bottom.  Jed, 
you've  got  a  longer  arm  than  I  have;  let's  see  if  you  can." 

Jed,  sprawled  upon  the  heap  of  lumber,  stretched  his 
arm  as  far  as  it  would  go.  "Hum,"  he  drawled,  "I  can't 
quite  make  it,  Sam.  .  .  .  There's  a  place  where  she  nar 
rows  way  down  here  and  I  can't  get  my  fingers  through  it." 

"Is  that  so?  Then  we'd  better  give  up  lookin'  for  the 
band,  I  cal'late.  Didn't  amount  to  anything,  anyhow.  Tell 
me  more  about  what  you  did  when  you  found  the  money. 
You  must  have  been  surprised." 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Land  sakes,  I  was.  I  don't  know's  I  ever 
was  so  surprised  in  my  life.  Thinks  I,  'Here's  Sam's 
money  that's  missin'  from  the  bank.'  Yes,  sir,  and  'twas, 
too." 

"Well,  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  Jed,  I  surely  am.  And 
when  you  found  it Let's  see,  you  found  it  this  morn 
ing  of  course?" 

"Eh?  Why — why,  how — what  makes  you  think  I  found 
it  this  mornin'?" 

"Oh,  because  you  must  have.  'Cause  if  you'd  found  it 
yesterday  or  the  day  before  you'd  have  told  me  right  off." 

"Yes — oh,  yes,  that's  so.     Yes,  I  found  it  this  mornin'." 

"Hadn't  you  thought  to  hunt  for  it  afore  ?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Land  sakes,  yes  .  .  .  yes,  I'd  hunted  lots  of 
times,  but  I  hadn't  found  it." 

"Hadn't  thought  to  look  in  that  place,  eh?" 

"That's  it.  ...  Say,  Sam,  what " 


"SHAVINGS"  309 


"It's  lucky  you  hadn't  moved  those  boards.  If  you'd 
shifted  them  any  since  I  threw  my  coat  on  'em  you  might 
not  have  found  it  for  a  month,  not  till  you  used  up  the 
whole  pile.  Lucky  you  looked  afore  you  shifted  the  lum 
ber." 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes,  that's  so.  That's  a  fact.  But,  Sam, 
hadn't  you  better  take  that  money  back  to  the  bank?  The 
folks  up  there  don't  know  it's  been  found  yet.  They'll  be 
some  surprised,  too." 

"So  they  will.  All  hands'll  be  surprised.  And  when  I 
tell  'em  how  you  happened  to  see  that  money  lyin'  in  a 
pile  on  the  floor  behind  those  boards  and  couldn't  scarcely 
believe  your  eyes,  and  couldn't  believe  'em  until  you'd 

reached  down  and  picked  up  the  money,  and  counted  it 

That's  about  what  you  did,  I  presume  likely,  eh?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Yes,  that's  just  it." 

"They'll  be  surprised  then,  and  no  wonder.  But  they'd 
be  more  surprised  if  I  should  bring  'em  here  and  show  'cm 
the  place  where  you  found  it.  'Twould  surprise  'most  any 
body  to  know  that  there  was  a  man  livin'  who  could  see 
down  a  black  crack  four  foot  deep  and  two  inches  wide 
and  around  a  corner  in  that  crack  and  see  money  lyin'  on 
the  floor,  and  know  'twas  money,  and  then  stretch  his  arm 
out  a  couple  of  foot  more  and  thin  his  wrist  down  until  it 
was  less  than  an  inch  through  and  pick  up  that  money. 
That  would  surprise  'em.  Don't  you  think  'twould,  Jed?" 

The  color  left  Jed's  face.  His  mouth  fell  open  and  he 
stared  blankly  at  his  friend.  The  latter  chuckled. 

"Don't  you  think  'twould  surprise  'em,  Jed?"  he  re 
peated.  "Seems  likely  as  if  'twould.  It  surprised  me  all 
right  enough." 

The  color  came  surging  back.  Jed's  cheeks  flamed.  He 
tried  to  speak,  but  what  he  said  was  not  coherent  nor  par 
ticularly  intelligible, 


310  "SHAVINGS" 


"Now — now — now,    Sam,"    he    stammered.     "I — I- 
You  don't  understand.     You  ain't  got  it  right.     I — I- 


The  captain  interrupted.  "Don't  try  so  hard,  Jed,"  he 
continued.  "Take  time  to  get  your  steam  up.  You'll  bust 
a  b'iler  if  you  puff  that  way.  Let's  see  what  it  is  I  don't 
understand.  You  found  this  money  behind  those  boards?" 

"Eh?     Yes  ...  yes  ...  but " 

"Wait.     And  you  found  it  this  mornin'?" 

"Yes  ...  yes  ...  but,  Sam— 

"Hold  on.  You  saw  it  layin'  on  the  floor  at  the  bottom 
of  that  crack?" 

"Well — well,  I  don't  know  as  I  saw  it  exactly,  but — 
but—  No,  I  didn't  see  it.  I— I  felt  it." 

"Oh,  you  felt  it !  Thought  you  said  you  saw  it.  Well, 
you  reached  down  and  felt  it,  then.  How  did  you  get  your 
arm  stretched  out  five  foot  long  and  three-quarters  of  an 
inch  thick?  Put  it  under  the  steam  roller,  did  you?" 

Jed  swallowed  twice  before  replying.  "I — I "  he  be 
gan.  "Well — well,  come  to  think  of  it,  Sam,  I — I  guess  I 
didn't  feel  it  with  my  fingers.  I — I  took  a  stick.  Yes,  that 
was  it.  I  poked  in  behind  there  with  a  stick." 

"Oh,  you  felt  it  with  a  stick.  And  knew  'twas  money? 
Tut,  tut !  You  must  have  a  good  sense  of  touch,  Jed,  to 
know  bills  when  you  scratch  across  'em  with  the  far  end  of 
a  five  foot  stick.  Pick  'em  up  with  a  stick,  too,  did  you?" 

Mr.  Winslow  was  speechless.  Captain  Sam  shook  his 
head. 

"And  that  ain't  the  most  astonishin'  part  either,"  he  ob 
served.  "While  those  bills  were  in  the  dark  at  the  bottom 
of  that  crack  they  must  have  sprouted.  They  went  in  there 
nothin'  but  tens  and  twenties.  These  you  just  gave  me  are 
fives  and  twos  and  all  sorts.  You'd  better  poke  astern  of 
those  boards  again,  Jed.  The  roots  must  be  down  there 
yet;  all  you've  scratched  up  are  the  sprouts." 


"SHAVINGS"  311 


His  only  answer  was  a  hopeless  groan.  Captain  Sam 
rose  and,  walking  over  to  where  his  friend  sat  with  his 
face  buried  between  his  hands,  laid  his  own  hand  on  the 
latter's  shoulder. 

"There,  there,  Jed,"  he  said,  gently.  "I  beg  your  par 
don.  I'm  sorry  I  stirred  you  up  this  way.  'Twas  mean 
of  me,  I  know,  but  when  you  commenced  givin'  me  all  this 
rigmarole  I  couldn't  help  it.  You  never  was  meant  for  a 
liar,  old  man ;  you  make  a  mighty  poor  fist  at  it.  What  is 
it  all  about  ?  What  was  you  tryin'  to  do  it  for  ?" 

Another  groan.     The  captain  tried  again. 

"What's  the  real  yarn  ?"  he  asked.  "What  are  you  actin' 
this  way  for  ?  Course  I  know  you  never  found  the  money. 
Is  there  somebody " 

"No!  No,  no!"  Jed's  voice  rose  almost  to  a  shout. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  clutched  at  Captain  Sam's  coat- 
sleeve.  "No,"  he  shouted.  "Course  there  ain't  anybody. 
Wh-what  makes  you  say  such  a  thing  as  that?  I — I  tell 
you  I  did  find  the  money.  I  did — I  did." 

"Jed!  Of  course  you  didn't.  I  know  you  didn't.  I 
know.  Gracious  king,  man,  be  sensible." 

"I  did !  I  did !  I  found  it  and  now  I  give  it  back  to 
you.  What  more  do  you  want,  Sam  Hunniwell?  Ain't 
that  enough?" 

"Enough !  It's  a  darned  sight  too  much.  I  tell  you  I 
know  you  didn't  find  it." 

"But  I  did." 

"Rubbish!  In  the  first  place,  you  and  I  hunted  every 
inch  behind  those  boards  the  very  day  the  money  was  miss- 
in',  and  'twa'n't  there  then.  And,  besides,  this  isn't  the 
money  I  lost." 

"Well — well,  what  if  'tain't?  I  don't  care.  I — I  know 
'tain't.  I — I  spent  your  money." 


312  "SHAVINGS" 


"You  spent  it?  When?  You  told  me  you  only  found 
it  this  mornin'." 

"I— I  know  I  did,  but  'twan't  so.  I— I "  Jed  was 

in  an  agony  of  alarm  and  frantic  haste.  "I  found  your 
money  two  or  three  days  ago.  Yes,  sir,  that's  when  I 
found  it.  ...  Er  ...  er  ..." 

"Humph!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  found  it  then? 
If  you'd  found  it  what  made  you  keep  runnin'  into  the 
bank  to  ask  me  if  I'd  found  it?  Why  didn't  you  give  it 
back  to  me  right  off?  Oh,  don't  be  so  ridiculous,  Jed." 

"I — I  ain't.  It's  true.  I — I  didn't  give  it  back  to  you 
because — because  I — I  thought  first  I'd  keep  it." 

"Keep  it  ?    Keep  it  ?    Steal  it,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Yes — yes,  that's  what  I  mean.  I — I  thought  first  I'd 
do  that  and  then  I  got — got  kind  of  sorry  and — and  scared 
and  I  got  some  more  money — and  now  I'm  givin'  it  back 
to  you.  See,  don't  you,  Sam?  That's  the  reason." 

Captain  Sam  shook  his  head.  "So  you  decided  to  be  a 
thief,  did  you,  Jed?"  he  said,  slowly.  "Well,  the  average 
person  never'd  have  guessed  you  was  such  a  desperate 
character.  .  .  .  Humph!  .  .  .  Well,  well!  .  .  .  What  was 
you  goin'  to  do  with  the  four  hundred,  provided  you  had 
kept  it?  You  spent  the  money  I  lost  anyway;  you  said 
you  did.  What  did  you  spend  it  for?" 

"Oh — oh,  some  things  I  needed." 

"Sho!     Is  that  so?     What  things?" 

Jed's  shaking  hand  moved  across  his  chin. 

"Oh— I — I  forget,"  he  faltered.  Then,  after  a  desper 
ate  struggle,  "I — I — I  bought  a  suit  of  clothes." 

The  effort  of  this  confession  was  a  peculiar  one.  Cap 
tain  Sam  Hunniwell  put  back  his  head  and  roared  with 
laughter.  He  was  still  laughing  when  he  picked  up  his 
hat  and  turned  to  the  door.  Jed  sprang  from  his  seat. 


"SHAVINGS"  313 


"Eh?  .  .  .  You're  not  gain',  are  you,  Sam?"  he  cried. 
The  captain,  wiping  his  eyes,  turned  momentarily. 

"Yes,  Jed,"  he  said,  chokingly,  "I'm  goin'.  Say,  if — 
if  you  get  time  some  of  these  days  dress  up  in  that  four 
hundred  dollar  suit  you  bought  and  then  send  me  word. 
I'd  like  to  see  it." 

He  went  out.  The  door  of  the  outer  shop  slammed. 
Jed  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead  and  groaned 
helplessly  and  hopelessly. 

The  captain  had  reached  the  gate  when  he  saw  Phillips 
coming  along  the  road  toward  him.  He  waited  until  the 
young  man  arrived. 

"Hello,  Captain,"  hailed  Charles.  "So  you  decided  not 
to  come  back  to  the  bank  this  afternoon,  after  all?" 

His  employer  nodded.  "Yes,"  he  said.  "I've  been  kept 
away  on  business.  Funny  kind  of  business,  too.  Say, 
Charlie,"  he  added,  "suppose  likely  your  sister  and  you 
would  be  too  busy  to  see  me  for  a  few  minutes  now?  I'd 
like  to  see  if  you've  got  an  answer  to  a  riddle." 

"A  riddle?" 

"Um-hm.  I've  just  had  the  riddle  sprung  on  me  and 
it's  got  my  head  whirlin'  like  a  bottle  in  a  tide  rip.  Can 
I  come  into  your  house  for  a  minute  and  spring  it  on  you  ?" 

The  young  man  looked  puzzled,  which  was  not  surpris 
ing,  but  his  invitation  to  come  into  the  house  was  most  cor 
dial.  They  entered  by  the  front  door.  As  they  came  into 
the  little  hall  they  heard  a  man's  voice  in  the  living-room 
beyond.  It  was  Major  Grover's  voice  and  they  heard  the 
major  say: 

"It  doesn't  matter  at  all.  Please  understand  I  had  no 
thought  of  asking.  I  merely  wanted  you  to  feel  that  what 
that  fellow  said  had  no  weight  with  me  whatever,  and  to 
assure  you  that  I  will  make  it  my  business  to  see  that  he 


314  "SHAVINGS" 


keeps  his  mouth  shut.  As  for  the  other  question, 
Ruth " 

Ruth  Armstrong's  voice  broke  in  here. 

"Oh,  please,"  she  begged,  "not  now.  I — I  am  so  sorry 
I  can't  tell  you  everything,  but — but  it  isn't  my  secret  and 
— and  I  can't.  Perhaps  some  day —  But  please  believe 
that  I  am  grateful,  very,  very  grateful.  I  shall  never  for 
get  it." 

Charlie,  with  an  anxious  glance  at  Captain  Hunniwell, 
cleared  his  throat  loudly.  The  captain's  thoughts,  however, 
were  too  busy  with  his  "riddle"  to  pay  attention  to  the 
voices  in  the  living-room.  As  he  and  Phillips  entered  that 
apartment  Major  Grover  came  into  the  hall.  He  seemed 
a  trifle  embarrassed,  but  he  nodded  to  Captain  Sam,  ex 
changed  greetings  with  Phillips,  and  hurried  out  of  the 
house.  They  found  Ruth  standing  by  the  rear  window 
and  looking  out  toward  the  sea. 

The  captain  plunged  at  once  into  his  story.  He  began 
by  asking  Mrs.  Armstrong  if  her  brother  had  told  her  of 
the  missing  four  hundred  dollars.  Charles  was  inclined  to 
be  indignant. 

"Of  course  I  haven't,"  he  declared.  "You  asked  us  all 
to  keep  quiet  about  it  and  not  to  tell  a  soul,  and  I  sup 
posed  you  meant  just  that." 

"Eh?  So  I  did,  Charlie,  so  I  did.  Beg  your  pardon, 
boy.  I  might  have  known  you'd  keep  your  hatches  closed. 
Well,  here's  the  yarn,  Mrs.  Armstrong.  It  don't  make  me 
out  any  too  everlastin'  brilliant.  A  grown  man  that  would 
shove  that  amount  of  money  into  his  overcoat  pocket  and 
then  go  sasshayin'  from  Wapatomac  to  Orham  ain't  the 
kind  I'd  recommend  to  ship  as  cow  steward  on  a  cattle 
boat,  to  say  nothin'  of  president  of  a  bank.  But  confess- 
in's  good  for  the  soul,  they  say,  even  if  it  does  make  a 
felkr  feel  like  a  fool,  so  here  goes.  I  did  just  that  thing." 


"SHAVINGS"  315 


He  went  on  to  tell  of  his  trip  to  Wapatomac,  his  inter 
view  with  Sage,  his  visit  to  the  windmill  shop,  his  discovery 
that  four  hundred  of  the  fourteen  hundred  had  disap 
peared.  Then  he  told  of  his  attempts  to  trace  it,  of  Jed's 
anxious  inquiries  from  day  to  day,  and,  finally,  of  the  scene 
he  had  just  passed  through. 

"So  there  you  are,"  he  concluded.  "I  wish  to  mercy 
you'd  tell  me  what  it  all  means,  for  I  can't  tell  myself.  If 
it  hadn't  been  so — so  sort  of  pitiful,  and  if  I  hadn't  been 
so  puzzled  to  know  what  made  him  do  it,  I  cal'late  I'd  have 
laughed  myself  sick  to  see  poor  old  Jed  tryin'  to  lie.  Why, 
he  ain't  got  the  first  notion  of  how  to  begin ;  I  don't  cal'late 
he  ever  told  a  real,  up-and-down  lie  afore  in  his  life.  That 
was  funny  enough — but  when  he  began  to  tell  me  he  was 
a  thief !  Gracious  king !  And  all  he  could  think  of  in  the 
way  of  an  excuse  was  that  he  stole  the  four  hundred  to 
buy  a  suit  of  clothes  with.  Ho,  ho,  ho!" 

He  roared  again.  Charlie  Phillips  laughed  also.  But 
his  sister  did  not  laugh.  She  had  seated  herself  in  the 
rocker  by  the  window  when  the  captain  began  his  tale  and 
now  she  had  drawn  back  into  the  corner  where  the  shad 
ows  were  deepest. 

"So  there  you  are,"  said  Captain  Sam,  again.  "There's 
the  riddle.  Now  what's  the  answer?  Why  did  he  do  it? 
Can  either  of  you  guess?" 

Phillips  shook  his  head.  "You  have  got  me,"  he  de^ 
clared.  "And  the  money  he  gave  you  was  not  the  money 
you  lost?  You're  sure  of  that?" 

"Course  I'm  sure  of  it.  In  the  first  place  I  lost  a  packet 
of  clean  tens  and  twenties ;  this  stuff  I've  got  in  my  pocket 
now  is  all  sorts,  ones  and  twos  and  fives  and  everything. 
And  in  the  second  place ' 

"Pardon  me,  just  a  minute,  Captain  Hunniwell.  Where 
did  he  get  the  four  hundred  to  give  you,  do  you  think?  He 


3i6  "SHAVINGS" 


hasn't  cashed  any  large  checks  at  the  bank  within  the  last 
day  or  two,  and  he  would  scarcely  have  so  much  on  hand 
in  his  shop." 

"Not  as  much  as  that — no.  Although  I've  known  the 
absent-minded,  careless  critter  to  have  over  two  hundred 
knockin'  around  among  his  tools  and  chips  and  glue  pots. 
Probably  he  had  some  to  start  with,  and  he  got  the  rest 
by  gettin'  folks  around  town  and  over  to  Harniss  to  cash 
his  checks.  Anthony  Hammond  over  there  asked  me  a 
little  while  ago,  when  I  met  him  down  to  the  wharf,  if  I 
thought  Shavin's  Winslow  was  good  for  a  hundred  and 
twenty-five.  Said  Jed  had  sent  over  by  the  telephone  man's 
auto  and  asked  him  to  cash  a  check  for  that  much.  Ham 
mond  said  he  thought  'twas  queer  he  hadn't  cashed  it  at 
our  bank;  that's  why  he  asked  me  about  it." 

"Humph !  But  why  should  he  give  his  own  money  away 
in  that  fashion?  And  confess  to  stealing  and  all  that  stuff? 
I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing." 

"Neither  did  anybody  else.  I've  known  Jed  all  my  life 
and  I  never  can  tell  what  loony  thing  he's  liable  to  do  next. 
But  this  beats  all  of  'em,  I  will  give  in." 

"You  don't  suppose — you  don't  suppose  he  is  doing  it 
to  help  you,  because  you  are  his  friend?  Because  he  is 
afraid  the  bank — or  you — may  get  into  trouble  because  of 
—well,  because  of  having  been  so  careless?" 

Captain  Sam  laughed  once  more.  "No,  no,"  he  said. 
"Gracious  king,  I  hope  my  reputation's  good  enough  to 
stand  the  losin'  of  four  hundred  dollars.  And  Jed  knows 
perfectly  well  I  could  put  it  back  myself,  if  'twas  neces 
sary,  without  runnin'  me  into  the  poorhouse.  No,  'tain't 
for  me  he's  doin'  it.  I  ain't  the  reason." 

"And  you're  quite  sure  his  story  is  all  untrue.  You 
don't  imagine  that  he  did  find  the  money,  your  money,  and 


"SHAVINGS"  317 


then,  for  some  reason  or  other,  change  it  with  smaller  bills, 
and " 

"Sshh,  sshh,  Charlie,  don't  waste  your  breath.  I  told  you 
I  knew  he  hadn't  found  the  four  hundred  dollars  I  lost, 
didn't  I  ?  Well,  I  do  know  it  and  for  the  very  best  of  rea 
sons  ;  in  fact,  my  stoppin'  into  his  shop  just  now  was  to 
tell  him  what  I'd  heard.  You  see,  Charlie,  old  Sylvester 
Sage  has  got  back  from  Boston  and  opened  up  his  house 
again.  And  he  telephoned  me  at  two  o'clock  to  say  that 
the  four  hundred  dollar  packet  was  layin'  on  his  sittin'- 
room  table  just  where  I  left  it  when  he  and  I  parted  com 
pany  four  days  or  so  ago.  That's  how  I  know  Jed  didn't 
find  it." 

From  the  shadowy  corner  where  Ruth  Armstrong  sat 
came  a  little  gasp  and  an  exclamation.  Charles  whistled. 

"Well,  by  George!"  he  exclaimed.  "That  certainly  puts 
a  crimp  in  Jed's  confession." 

"Sartin  sure  it  does.  When  Sylvester  and  I  parted  we 
was  both  pretty  hot  under  the  collar,  havin'  called  each 
other's  politics  about  every  mean  name  we  could  think  of. 
I  grabbed  up  my  gloves,  and  what  I  thought  was  my  money 
from  the  table  and  slammed  out  of  the  house.  Seems  all 
I  grabbed  was  the  two  five  hundred  packages ;  the  four 
hundred  one  was  shoved  under  some  papers  and  magazines 
and  there  it  stayed  till  Sylvester  got  back  from  his  Boston 
cruise. 

"But  that  don't  answer  my  riddle,"  he  added,  impa 
tiently.  "What  made  Jed  act  the  way  he  did?  Got  the 
answer,  Charlie?" 

The  young  man  shook  his  head.  "No,  by  George,  1 
haven't !"  he  replied. 

"How  about  you,  Mrs.  Armstrong?  Can  you  help  us 
out?" 

Ruth's   answer  was  brief.     "No,  I'm  afraid  not,"   she 


318  "SHAVINGS" 


said.  There  was  a  queer  note  in  her  voice  which  caused 
her  brother  to  glance  at  her,  but  Captain  Hunniwell  did 
not  notice.  He  turned  to  go. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you'd  think  it  over  and  see  if 
you  can  spy  land  anywheres  ahead.  I  need  a  pilot.  This 
course  is  too  crooked  for  me.  I'm  goin'  home  to  ask 
Maud;  maybe  she  can  see  a  light.  So  long." 

He  went  out.  When  Charles  returned,  having  accom 
panied  his  employer  as  far  as  the  door,  he  found  Ruth 
standing  by  her  chair  and  looking  at  him.  A  glance  at  her 
face  caused  him  to  stop  short  and  look  at  her. 

"Why,  Ruth,"  he  asked,  "what  is  it  ?" 

She  was  pale  and  trembling.    There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Charlie,"  she  cried,  "can't  you  see?  He — he  did 
it  for  you." 

"Did  it  for  me?  Did  what?  Who?  What  are  you  talk 
ing  about,  Sis?" 

"Jed.  Jed  Winslow.  Don't  you  see,  Charlie?  He  pre 
tended  to  have  found  the  money  and  to  have  stolen  it  just 
to  save  you.  He  thought  you — he  thought  you  had 
taken  it." 

"What?  Thought  I  had  taken  it?  7  had?  Why  in  the 
devil  should  he  think " 

He  stopped.  When  he  next  spoke  it  was  in  a  different 
tone. 

"Sis,"  he  asked,  slowly,  "do  you  mean  that  he  thought 
I  took  this  money  because  he  knew  I  had — had  done  that 
tiling  at  Middleford?  Does  he  know — about  that?" 

The  tears  were  streaming  down  her  cheeks.  "Yes,  Char 
lie,"  she  said,  "he  knows.  He  found  it  out,  partly  by  ac 
cident,  before  you  came  here.  And — and  think  how  loyal, 
how  wonderful  he  has  been !  It  was  through  him  that  you 
got  your  opportunity  there  at  the  bank.  And  now — now 
lie  has  done  this  to  save  you.  Oh,  Charlie!" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  clock  in  the  steeple  of  the  Methodist  church 
boomed  eleven  times  and  still  the  lights  shone  from 
the  sitting-room  windows  of  the  little  Winslow 
house  and  from  those  of  Jed's  living  quarters  behind  his 
windmill  shop.  At  that  time  of  year  and  at  that  time  of 
night  there  were  few  windows  alight  in  Orham,  and  Mr. 
Gabe  Bearse,  had  he  been  astir  at  such  an  hour,  might  have 
wondered  why  the  Armstrongs  and  "Shavings"  were  "set- 
tin'  up."  Fortunately  for  every  one  except  him,  Gabe  was 
in  bed  and  asleep,  otherwise  he  might  have  peeped  under 
Jed's  kitchen  window  shade — he  had  been  accused  of  doing 
such  things — and  had  he  done  so  he  would  have  seen  Jed 
and  Charlie  Phillips  in  deep  and  earnest  conversation. 
Neither  would  have  wished  to  be  seen  just  then ;  their  inter 
view  was  far  too  intimate  and  serious  for  that. 

They  had  been  talking  since  eight.  Charles  and  his 
sister  had  had  a  long  conversation  following  Captain  Hun- 
niwell's  visit  and  then,  after  a  pretense  at  supper — a  pre 
tense  made  largely  on  Babbie's  account — the  young  man 
had  come  straight  to  the  shop  and  to  Jed.  He  had  found 
the  latter  in  a  state  of  extreme  dejection.  He  was  sitting 
before  the  little  writing  table  in  his  living-room,  his  elbows 
on  the  desk  and  his  head  in  his  hands.  The  drawer  of  the 
table  was  open  and  Jed  was,  apparently,  gazing  intently  at 
something  within.  When  Phillips  entered  the  room  he 
started,  hastily  slammed  the  drawer  shut,  and  raised  a  pale 
and  distressed  face  to  his  visitor. 

"Eh?"  he  exclaimed.  "Oh,  it's  you,  Charlie,  ain't  it? 
I — I — er — good  mornin'.  It's — it's  a  nice  day." 

319 


320  "SHAVINGS" 


Charles  smiled  slightly  and  shook  his  head. 

"You're  a  little  mixed  on  the  time,  aren't  you,  Jed?"  he 
observed.  "It  was  a  nice  day,  but  it  is  a  nice  evening  now." 

"Eh?  Is  it?  Land  sakes,  I  presume  likely  'tis.  Must 
be  after  supper  time,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"Supper  time !  Why,  it's  after  eight  o'clock.  Didn't  you 
know  it?" 

"No-o.  No,  I  guess  not.  I — I  kind  of  lost  run  of  the 
time,  seems  so." 

"Haven't  you  had  any  supper?" 

"No-o.    I  didn't  seem  to  care  about  supper,  somehow." 

"But  haven't  you  eaten  anything?" 

"No.  I  did  make  myself  a  cup  of  tea,  but  twan't  what 
you'd  call  a  success.  ...  I  forgot  to  put  the  tea  in  it.  ... 
But  it  don't  make  any  difference ;  I  ain't  hungry — or  thirsty, 
either." 

Phillips  leaned  forward  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  older 
man's  shoulder. 

"Jed,"  he  said  gently,  "I  know  why  you're  not  hungry. 
Oh,  Jed,  what  in  the  world  made  you  do  it?" 

Jed  started  back  so  violently  that  his  chair  almost  upset. 
He  raised  a  hand  with  the  gesture  of  one  warding  off  a 
blow. 

"Do?"  he  gasped.     "Do  what?" 

"Why,  what  you  did  about  that  money  that  Captain 
Hunniwell  lost.  What  made  you  do  it,  Jed?" 

Jed's  eyes  closed  momentarily.  Then  he  opened  them 
and,  without  looking  at  his  visitor,  rose  slowly  to  his  feet. 

"So  Sam  told  you,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh.  "I — I  didn't 
hardly  think  he'd  do  that.  .  .  .  Course  'twas  all  right  for 
him  to  tell,"  he  added  hastily.  "I  didn't  ask  him  not  to, 
but — but,  he  and  I  havin'  been — er — chums,  as  you  might 
say,  for  so  long,  I — I  sort  of  thought  .  .  .  Well,  it  don't 


"SHAVINGS"  321 


make  any  difference,  I  guess.  Did  he  tell  your — your  sis 
ter?  Did  he  tell  her  how  I — how  I  stole  the  money?" 

Charles  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said  quietly.  "No,  he  didn't  tell  either  of  us 
that.  He  told  us  that  you  had  tried  to  make  him  believe 
you  took  the  money,  but  that  he  knew  you  were  not  telling 
the  truth.  He  knew  you  didn't  take  it." 

"Eh?  Now  .  .  .  now,  Charlie,  that  ain't  so."  Jed  was 
even  more  disturbed  and  distressed  than  before.  "I — I 
told  Sam  I  took  it  and — and  kept  it.  I  told  him  I  did.  What 
more  does  he  want  ?  What's  he  goin'  around  tellin'  folks  I 
didn't  for?  What " 

"Hush,  Jed!  He  knows  you  didn't  take  it.  He  knew 
it  all  the  time  you  were  telling  him  you  did.  In  fact  he 
came  into  your  shop  this  afternoon  to  tell  you  that  the 
Sage  man  over  at  Wapatomac  had  found  the  four  hundred 
dollars  on  the  table  in  his  sitting-room  just  where  the  cap 
tain  left  it.  Sage  had  just  'phoned  him  that  very  thing. 
He  would  have  told  you  that,  but  you  didn't  give  him  the 
chance.  Jed,  I " 

But  Jed  interrupted.  His  expression  as  he  listened  had 
been  changing  like  the  sky  on  a  windy  day  in  April. 

"Here,  here!"  he  cried  wildly.  "What — what  kind  of 
talk's  that  ?  Do — do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  Sam  Hunni- 
well  never  lost  that  money  at  all  ?  That  all  he  did  was  leave 
it  over  at  Wapatomac?" 

"Yes,  that's  just  what  I  mean." 

"Then — then  all  the  time  when  I  was — was  givin'  him 
the — the  other  money  and  tellin'  him  how  I  found  it  and — 
and  all — he  knew " 

"Certainly  he  knew.    I've  just  told  you  that  he  knew." 

Jed  sat  heavily  down  in  the  chair  once  more.  He  passed 
his  hand  slowly  across  his  chin. 

"He  knew !"  he  repeated.    "He  knew !  .  .  ."    Then,  with 


322  "SHAVINGS" 


a  sudden  gasp  as  the  full  significance  of  the  thought  came 
to  him,  he  cried :  "Why,  if — if  the  money  wasn't  ever  lost 
you  couldn't — you " 

Charles  shook  his  head:  "No,  Jed,"  he  said,  "I  couldn't 
have  taken  it.  And  I  didn't  take  it." 

Jed  gasped  again.  He  stretched  out  a  hand  imploringly. 
"Oh,  Lord,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  never  meant  to  say  that.  I — 
I " 

"It's  all  right,  Jed.  I  don't  blame  you  for  thinking  I 
might  have  taken  it.  Knowing  what  you  did  about — well, 
about  my  past  record,  it  is  not  very  astonishing  that  you 
should  think  almost  anything." 

Jed's  agonized  contrition  was  acute. 

"Don't  talk  so,  Charlie!"  he  pleaded.  "Don't!  I— I'd 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself.  I  am — mercy  knows  I  am ! 
But  .  .  .  Eh?  Why,  how  did  you  know  I  knew  about — 
that?" 

"Ruth  told  me  just  now.  After  Captain  Hunniwell  had 
gone,  she  told  me  the  whole  thing.  About  how  Babbie 
let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag  and  how  she  told  you  for  fear 
you  might  suspect  something  even  worse  than  the  truth; 
although,"  he  added,  "that  was  quite  bad  enough.  Yes,  she 
told  me  everything.  You've  been  a  brick  all  through,  Jed. 
And  now — 

"Wait,  Charlie,  wait.  I — I  don't  know  what  to  say  to 
you.  I  don't  know  what  you  must  think  of  me  for  ever — 
ever  once  suspectin'  you.  If  you  hadn't  said  to  me  only 
such  a  little  spell  ago  that  you  needed  money  so  bad  and 
would  do  most  anything  to  get  five  hundred  dollars — if 
you  hadn't  said  that,  I  don't  think  the  notion  would  ever 
have  crossed  my  mind." 

Phillips  whistled.  "Well,  by  George!"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
had  forgotten  that.  No  wonder  you  thought  I  had  gone 
crooked  again.  Humph!  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  tell  you  why  I 


'SHAVINGS"  323 


wanted  that  money.  You  see,  I've  been  trying  to  pay  back 
to  the  man  in  Middleford  the  money  of  his  which — which  I 
took  before.  It  is  two  thousand  dollars  and,"  with  a  shrug, 
"that  looks  a  good  deal  bigger  sum  to  me  now  than  it  used 
to,  you  can  bet  on  that.  I  had  a  few  hundred  in  a  New 
York  savings  bank  before  I — well,  before  they  shut  me  up. 
No  one  knew  about  it,  not  even  Sis.  I  didn't  tell  her  be 
cause — well,  I  wish  I  could  say  it  was  because  I  was  in 
tending  to  use  it  to  pay  back  what  I  had  taken,  but  that 
wasn't  the  real  reason  why  I  kept  still  about  it.  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  Jed,  I  didn't  feel — no,  I  don't  feel  yet  any  too 
forgiving  or  kindly  toward  that  chap  who  had  me  put  in 
prison.  I'm  not  shirking  blame ;  I  was  a  fool  and  a  scamp 
and  all  that ;  but  he  is — he's  a  hard  man,  Jed." 

Jed  nodded.  "Seems  to  me  Ru —  -  your  sister  said  he 
was  a  consider'ble  of  a  professer,"  he  observed. 

"Professor?    Why  no,  he  was  a  bond  broker." 

"I  mean  that  he  professed  religion  a  good  deal.  Called 
himself  a  Christian  and  such  kind  of  names." 

Phillips  smiled  bitterly.  "If  he  is  a  Christian  I  prefer 
to  be  a  heathen,"  he  observed. 

"Um-hm.  Well,  maybe  he  ain't  one.  You  could  teach  a 
parrot  to  holler  'Praise  the  Lord,'  I  cal'late,  and  the  more 
crackers  he  got  by  it  the  louder  he'd  holler.  So  you  never 
said  anything  about  the  four  hundred  you  had  put  by, 
Charlie." 

"No.  I  felt  that  I  had  been  treated  badly  and — why, 
Jed,  the  man  used  to  urge  me  to  dress  better  than  I  could 
afford,  to  belong  to  the  most  expensive  club  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  He  knew  I  was  in  with  a  set  sporting  ten 
times  the  money  I  could  muster,  and  spending  it,  too,  but 
he  seemed  to  like  to  have  me  associate  with  them.  Said 
it  was  good  for  the  business." 

"Sartin !    More  crackers  for  Polly.    Go  on." 


324  "SHAVINGS" 


"I  intended  that  he  should  never  have  that  money,  but 
after  I  came  here,  after  I  had  been  here  for  a  time,  I 
changed  my  mind.  I  saw  things  in  a  different  light.  I 
wrote  him  a  letter,  told  him  I  meant  to  pay  back  every  cent 
of  the  two  thousand  I  had  taken  and  enclosed  my  check 
for  the  seven  hundred  and  fifty  I  had  put  by.  Since  then  I 
have  paid  him  two  hundred  and  fifty  more,  goodness  knows 
how.  I  have  squeezed  every  penny  from  my  salary  that  I 
could  spare.  I  have  paid  him  half  of  the  two  thousand 
and,  if  everything  had  gone  on  well,  some  day  or  other  I 
would  have  paid  the  other  half." 

Jed  laid  a  hand  on  his  companion's  knee.  "Good  boy, 
Charlie,"  he  said.  "And  how  did  the — er — professin'  poll 
parrot  act  about  your  payin'  it  back?" 

Charles  smiled  faintly.  "Just  before  I  talked  with  you 
that  day,  Jed,"  he  said,  "I  received  a  letter  from  him  stating 
that  he  did  not  feel  I  was  paying  as  rapidly  as  I  could  and 
that,  if  he  did  not  receive  another  five  hundred  shortly  he 
ihould  feel  it  his  duty  to  communicate  with  my  present  em 
ployers.  Do  you  wonder  I  said  I  would  do  almost  anything 
to  get  the  money?" 

Jed's  hand  patted  the  knee  sympathetically. 

"Sho,  sho,  sho!"  he  exclaimed.  "Have  you  heard  from 
him  since?" 

"No,  I  wrote  him  that  I  was  paying  as  fast  as  I  could 
and  that  if  he  communicated  with  my  employers  that  would 
end  any  chances  of  his  ever  getting  more.  He  hasn't  writ 
ten  since ;  afraid  of  stopping  the  golden  egg  supply,  I  pre 
sume.  .  .  .  But  there,"  he  added,  "that's  enough  of  that. 
Jed,  how  could  you  do  it — just  for  me?  Of  course  I  had 
come  to  realize  that  your  heart  was  as  big  as  a  bushel  basket, 
and  that  you  and  I  were  friends.  But  when  a  fellow  gives 
up  four  hundred  dollars  of  his  own  money,  and,  not  only 
does  that,  but  deliberately  confesses  himself  a  thief — when 


"SHAVINGS"  325 


he  does  that  to  save  some  one  else  who,  as  he  knew,  had 
really  been  a  thief  and  who  he  was  pretty  sure  must  have 
stolen  again — why,  Jed,  it  is  unbelievable.  Why  did  you 
do  it  ?  What  can  I  say  to  you  ?" 

Jed  held  up  a  protesting  hand. 

"Don't  say  anything,"  he  stammered.  "Dotrt !  It's — it's 
all  foolishness,  anyhow." 

"Foolishness!  It's — oh,  I  don't  know  what  it  is!  And 
to  sacrifice  your  reputation  and  your  character  and  your 
friendship  with  Captain  Hunniwell,  all  for  me!  I  can't 
understand  it." 

"Now — now — now,  Charlie,  don't  try  to.  If  I  can't  un 
derstand  myself  more'n  half  the  time,  what's  the  use  of 
your  strainin'  your  brains?  I — I  just  took  a  notion,  that's 
all.  I- 

"But,  Jed,  why  did  you  do  it — for  me?  I  have  heard 
of  men  doing  such  things  for — for  women,  sacrificing 
themselves  to  save  a  woman  they  were  in  k)ve  with.  You 
read  of  that  in  books  and — yes,  I  think  I  can  understand 
that.  But  for  you  to  do  it — for  me!" 

Jed  waved  both  hands  this  time.  "Sshh !  sshh !"  he  cried, 
in  franti^  protest.  His  face  was  a  brilliant  crimson  and  his 
embarrassment  and  confusion  were  so  acute  as  to  be  laugh 
able,  although  Phillips  was  far  from  laughing.  "Sshh, 
sshh,  Charlie,"  pleaded  Jed.  "You — you  don't  know  what 
you're  talkin'  about.  You're  makin'  an  awful  fuss  about 
nothin'.  Sshh!  Yes,  you  are,  too.  I  didn't  have  any 
notion  of  tellin'  Sam  I  stole  that  four  hundred  when  I 
first  gave  it  to  him.  I  was  goin'  to  tell  him  I  found  it, 
that's  all.  That  would  keep  him  bottled  up,  I  figgered,  and 
satisfied  and  then — then  you  and  I'd  have  a  talk  and  I'd  tell 
you  what  I'd  done  and — well,  some  day  maybe  you  could 
pay  me  back  the  money;  don't  you  see?  I  do  hope,"  he 
added  anxiously,  "you  won't  hold  it  against  me,  for  thinkin' 


326  "SHAVINGS" 


maybe  you  had  taken  it.  Course  I'd  ought  to  have  known 
better.  I  would  have  known  better  if  I'd  been  anybody  but 
Shavin's  Winslow.  He  ain't  responsible." 

"Hush,  Jed,  hush!  But  why  did  you  say  you  had — 
kept  it?" 

"Eh?  Oh,  that  was  Sam's  doin's.  He  commenced  to 
ask  questions,  and,  the  first  thing  I  knew,  he  had  me  on 
the  spider  fryin'  over  a  hot  fire.  The  more  I  sizzled  and 
sputtered  and  tried  to  get  out  of  that  spider,  the  more  he 
poked  up  the  fire.  I  declare,  I  never  knew  lyin'  was  such 
a  job !  When  I  see  how  easy  and  natural  it  comes  to  some 
folks  I  feel  kind  of  ashamed  to  think  what  a  poor  show  I 
made  at  it.  Well,  Sam  kept  pokin'  the  fire  and  heatin'  me 
up  till  I  got  desperate  and  swore  I  stole  the  money  instead 
of  findin'  it.  And  that  was  hoppin'  out  of  the  fryin'  pan 
into  the  fire,"  he  drawled  reflectively. 

Charles  smiled.  "Captain  Sam  said  you  told  him  you 
took  the  money  to  buy  a  suit  of  clothes  with,"  he  suggested. 

"Eh  ?  Did  I  ?  Sho !  That  was  a  real  bright  idea  of 
mine,  wasn't  it?  A  suit  of  clothes.  Humph!  Wonder  I 
didn't  say  I  bought  shoe  laces  or  collar  buttons  or  some- 
thin'.  .  .  .  Sho !  .  .  .  Dear,  dear !  Well,  they  sa>  George 
Washin'ton  couldn't  tell  a  lie  and  I've  proved  I  can't  either ; 
only  I've  tried  to  tell  one  and  I  don't  recollect  that  he  ever 
did  that.  .  .  .  Humph !  .  .  .  A  suit  of  clothes.  .  .  .  Four 
hundred  dollars.  .  .  .  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  would  have 
looked  like  a  calico  shirt  and  a  pair  of  overalls  alongside 
of  me,  eh  ?  ...  Humph !" 

Phillips  shook  his  head.  "Nevertheless,  Jed,"  he  de 
clared,  "I  can't  understand  why  you  did  it  and  I  never — 
never  shall  forget  it.  Neither  will  Ruth.  She  will  tell  you 
so  to-morrow." 

Jed  was  frightened.  "No,  no,  no,  she  mustn't,"  he 
cried,  quickly.  "I — I  don't  want  her  to  talk  about  it.  I — I 


'SHAVINGS"  327 


don't  want  anybody  to  talk  about  it.  Please  tell  her  not  to, 
Charlie!  Please!  It's — it's  all  such  foolishness  anyhow. 
Let's  forget  it." 

"It  isn't  the  sort  of  thing  one  forgets  easily.  But  we 
won't  talk  of  it  any  more  just  now,  if  that  pleases  you  bet 
ter.  I  have  some  other  things  to  talk  about  and  I  must  talk 
about  them  with  some  one.  I  must — I've  got  to." 

Jed  looked  at  him.  The  words  reminded  him  forcibly  of 
Ruth's  on  that  day  when  she  had  come  to  the  windmill  shop 
to  tell  him  her  brother's  story  and  to  discuss  the  question  of 
his  coming  to  Orham.  She,  too,  had  said  that  she  must 
talk  with  some  one — she  must. 

"Have — you  talked  'em  over  with — with  your  sister?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes.  But  she  and  I  don't  agree  completely  in  the  mat 
ter.  You  see,  Ruth  thinks  the  world  of  me,  she  always  did, 
a  great  deal  more  than  I  deserve,  ever  have  deserved  or 
ever  will.  And  in  this  matter  she  thinks  first  of  all  of  me — 
what  will  become  of  me  provided — well,  provided  things 
don't  go  as  I  should  like  to  have  them.  That  isn't  the  way 
I  want  to  face  the  question.  I  want  to  know  what  is  best 
for  every  one,  for  her,  for  me  and — and  for  some  one  else 
— most  of  all  for  some  one  else,  I  guess,"  he  added. 

Jed  nodded  slowly.     "For  Maud,"  he  said. 

Charles  looked  at  him.  "How  on  earth ?"  he  de 
manded.  "What  in  blazes  are  you — a  clairvoyant?" 

"No-o.  No.  But  it  don't  need  a  spirk  medium  to  see 
through  a  window  pane,  Charlie;  that  is,  the  average  win 
dow  pane,"  he  added,  with  a  glance  at  his  own,  which  were 
in  need  of  washing  just  then.  "You  want  to  know,"  he 
continued,  "what  you'd  ought  to  do  now  that  will  be  the 
right  thing,  or  the  nighest  to  the  right  thing,  for  your  sister 
and  Babbie  and  yourself — and  Maud." 

"Yes,  I  do.    It  isn't  any  new  question  for  me.    I've  been 


328  "SHAVINGS" 


putting  it  up  to  myself  for  a  long  time,  for  months;  by 
George,  it  seems  years." 

"I  know.  I  know.  Well,  Charlie,  I've  been  puttin'  it  up 
to  myself,  too.  Have  you  got  any  answer?" 

"No,  none  that  exactly  suits  me.    Have  you?" 

"I  don't  know's  I  have — exactly." 

"Exactly?    Well,  have  you  any,  exact  or  otherwise?" 

"Um.  .  .  .  Well,  I've  got  one,  but  .  .  .  but  perhaps  it 
ain't  an  answer.  Perhaps  it  wouldn't  do  at  all.  Perhaps 
.  .  .  perhaps  .  .  ." 

"Never  mind  the  perhapses.    What  is  it?" 

"Um.  .  .  .  Suppose  we  let  it  wait  a  little  spell  and  talk 
the  situation  over  just  a  little  mite.  You've  been  talkin' 
with  your  sister,  you  say,  and  she  don't  entirely  agree  with 
you." 

"No.  7  say  things  can't  g«  en  as  they've  been  going. 
They  can't." 

"Um-hm.    Meanin' — what  things?" 

"Everything.  Jed,  do  you  remember  that  day  when  you 
and  I  had  the  talk  about  poetry  and  all  that?  When 
you  quoted  that  poem  about  a  chap's  fearing  his  fate  too 
much?  Well,  I've  been  fearing  my  fate  ever  since  I 
began  to  realize  what  a  mess  I  was  getting  into  here  in 
Orham.  When  I  first  came  I  saw,  of  course,  that  I  was 
skating  on  thin  ice,  and  it  was  likely  to  break  under  m«  at 
any  time.  I  knew  perfectly  well  that  some  day  the  Middle- 
ford  business  was  bound  to  come  out  and  that  my  accepting 
the  bank  offer  without  telling  Captain  Hunniwell  or  any 
one  was  a  mighty  risky,  not  t«  say  mean,  business.  But 
Ruth  was  so  very  anxious  that  I  should  accept  and  kept 
begging  me  not  to  tell,  at  least  until  they  had  had  a  chance 
to  learn  that  I  was  worth  something,  that  I  gave  in 
and  ...  I  say,  Jed,"  he  put  in,  breaking  his  own  sentence 


"SHAVINGS"  329 


in  the  middle,  "don't  think  I'm  trying  to  shove  the  blame 
over  on  to  Sis.  It's  not  that." 

Jed  nodded.  "Sho,  sho,  Charlie,"  he  said,  "coarse  'tain't. 
I  understand." 

"No,  I'll  take  the  blame.  I  was  old  enough  to  have  a 
mind  of  my  own.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  realized  it  all, 
but  I  didn't  care  so  much.  If  the  smash  did  come,  I  fig 
ured,  it  might  not  come  until  I  had  established  myself  at 
the  bank,  until  they  might  have  found  me  valuable  enough 
to  keep  on  in  spite  of  it.  And  I  worked  mighty  hard  to 
make  them  like  me.  Then — then — well,  then  Maud  and  I 
became  friends  and — and — oh,  confound  it,  you  see  what 
I  mean!  You  must  see." 

The  Winslow  knee  was  clasped  between  the  Winslow 
hands  and  the  Winslow  foot  was  swinging.  Jed  nodded 
again. 

"I  see,  Charlie,"  he  said. 

"And — and  here  I  am.  The  smash  has  come,  in  a  way, 
already.  Babbitt,  so  Ruth  tells  me,  knows  the  whole  story 
and  was  threatening  to  tell,  but  she  says  Grover  assures 
her  that  he  won't  tell,  that  he,  the  major,  has  a  club  over 
the  old  fellow  which  will  prerent  his  telling.  Do  you  think 
that's  true?" 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised.  Major  Grover  sartinly  did 
seem  to  put  the  fear  of  the  Lord  into  Phin  this  afternoon. 
.  .  .  And  that's  no  one-horse  miracle,"  he  drawled,  "when 
you  consider  that  all  the  ministers  in  Orham  haven't  been 
able  to  do  it  for  forty  odd  years.  .  .  .  Um.  .  .  .  Yes,  I 
kind  of  cal'late  Phin'll  keep  his  hatches  shut.  He  may  bust 
his  b'iler  and  blow  up  with  spite,  but  he  won't  talk  about 
you,  Charlie,  I  honestly  beHeve.  And  we  can  all  thank  the 
major  for  that." 

"I  shall  thank  him,  for  one  F 

"Mercy  on  us !     No,  no.     He  doesn't  kno^r  your  stury 


330  "SHAVINGS" 


at  all.  He  just  thinks  Babbitt  was  circulatin'  lies  about 
Ruth — about  your  sister.  You  mustn't  mention  the  Mid- 
dleford — er — mess  to  Major  Grover." 

"Humph !    Well,  unless  I'm  greatly  mistaken,  Ruth— 

"Eh?    Ruth— what?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  Never  mind  that  now.  And  allowing 
that  Babbitt  will,  as  you  say,  keep  his  mouth  shut,  admitting 
that  the  situation  is  just  what  it  was  before  Captain  Hunni- 
well  lost  the  money  or  Babbitt  came  into  the  affair  at  all, 
still  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  things  can't  go  on  as  they 
are.  Jed,  I — it's  a  mighty  hard  thing  to  say  to  another 
man,  but — the  world — my  world — just  begins  and  ends 
with — with  her." 

His  fists  clenched  and  his  jaw  set  as  he  said  it.  Jed 
bowed  his  head. 

"With  Maud,  you  mean,"  he  said. 

"Yes.  I — I  don't  care  for  anything  else  or  anybody 
else.  .  .  .  Oh,  of  course  I  don't  mean  just  that,  you  know. 
I  do  care  for  Sis  and  Babbie.  But — they're  different." 

"I  understand,  Charlie." 

"No,  you  don't.  How  can  you?  Nobody  can  under 
stand,  least  of  all  a  set  old  crank  like  you,  Jed,  and  a  con 
firmed  bachelor  besides.  Beg  pardon  for  contradicting 
you,  but  you  don't  understand,  you  can't." 

Jed  gazed  soberly  at  the  floor. 

"Maybe  I  can  understand  a  little,  Charlie,"  he  drawled 
gently. 

"Well,  all  right.  Let  it  go  at  that.  The  fact  is  that  I'm 
at  a  crisis." 

"Just  a  half  minute,  now.  Have  you  said  anything  to 
Maud  about — about  how  you  feel?" 

"Of  course  I  haven't,"  indignantly.  "How  could  I,  with 
out  telling  her  everything?" 

"That's  right,  that's  right.     Course  you  couldn't,  and  be 


"SHAVINGS"  331 


fair  and  honorable.  .  .  .  Hum.  .  .  .  Then  you  don't  know 
whether  or  not  she — er — feels  the  same  way  about — about 
you?" 

Charles  hesitated.  "No-o,"  he  hesitated.  "No,  I  don't 
know,  of  course.  But  I — I  feel — I— 

"You  feel  that  that  part  of  the  situation  ain't  what  you'd 
call  hopeless,  eh?  ...  Um.  .  .  .  Well,  judgin'  from  what 
I've  heard,  I  shouldn't  call  it  that,  either.  Would  it  sur 
prise  you  to  know,  Charlie,  that  her  dad  and  I  had  a  little 
talk  on  this  very  subject  not  so  very  long  ago?" 

Evidently  it  did  surprise  him.  Charles  gasped  and  turned 
red. 

"Captain  Hunniwell!"  he  exclaimed.  "Did  Captain  Hun- 
niwell  talk  with  you  about — about  Maud  and — and  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  by  George !  Then  he  suspected — he  guessed 
that—  That's  strange." 

Jed  relinquished  the  grip  of  one  hand  upon  his  knee 
long  enough  to  stroke  his  chin. 

"Um  .  .  .  yes,"  he  drawled  drily.  "It's  worse  than 
strange,  it's — er — paralyzin'.  More  clairvoyants  in  Orham 
than  you  thought  there  was ;  eh,  Charlie  ?" 

"But  why  should  he  talk  .with  you  on  that  subject ;  about 
anything  so — er — personal  and  confidential  as  that?  With 
you,  you  know !" 

Jed's  slow  smile  drifted  into  sight  and  vanished  again. 
He  permitted  himself  the  luxury  of  a  retort. 

"Well,"  he  observed  musingly,  "as  to  that  I  can't  say  for 
certain.  Maybe  he  did  it  for  the  same  reason  you're  doin' 
it  now,  Charlie." 

The  young  man  evidently  had  not  thought  of  it  in  just 
that  light.  He  looked  surprised  and  still  more  puzzled. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  admitted.  "So  I  am,  of  course.  And 
I  do  talk  to  you  about  things  I  never  would  think  of  men- 


332  "SHAVINGS" 


tioning  to  other  people.  And  Ruth  says  she  does.  That's 
queer,  too.  But  we  are — er — neighbors  of  yours  and — and 
tenants,  you  know.  We've  known  you  ever  since  we  came 
to  Orham." 

"Ye-es.  And  Sam's  known  me  ever  since  7  came.  Any 
how  he  talked  with  me  about  you  and  Maud.  I  don't 
think  I  shall  be  sayin'  more'n  I  ought  to  if  I  tell  you  that 
he  likes  you,  Charlie." 

"Does  he?"  eagerly.  "By  George,  I'm  glad  of  that! 
But,  oh,  well,"  with  a  sigh,  "he  doesn't  know.  If  he  did 
know  my  record  he  might  not  like  me  so  well.  And  as 
for  my  marrying  his  daughter — good  night!"  with  hopeless 
emphasis. 

"No,  not  good  night  by  any  means.  Maybe  it's  only 
good  mornin'.  Go  on  and  tell  me  what  you  mean  by  bein' 
at  a  crisis,  as  you  said  a  minute  ago." 

"I  mean  just  that.  The  time  has  come  when  I  must  speak 
to  Maud.  I  must  find  out  if — find  out  how  she  feels  about 
me.  And  I  can't  speak  to  her,  honorably,  without  telling 
her  everything.  And  suppose  she  should  care  enough  for 
me  to — to — suppose  she  should  care  in  spite  of  everything, 
there's  her  father.  She  is  his  only  daughter;  he  wor 
ships  the  ground  she  steps  on.  Suppose  I  tell  him  I've 
been,"  bitterly,  "a  crook  and  a  jailbird ;  what  will  he  think 
of  me — as  a  son-in-law?  And  now  suppose  he  was  fool 
enough  to  consent — which  isn't  supposable — how  could  I 
stay  here,  working  for  him,  sponging  a  living  from  him, 
with  this  thing  hanging  over  us  all?  No,  I  can't — I  can't. 
Whatever  else  happens  I  can't  do  that.  And  I  can't  go  on 
as  I  am — or  I  won't.  Now  what  am  I  going  to  do  ?" 

He  had  risen  and  was  pacing  the  floor.  Jed  asked  a  ques 
tion. 

"What  does  your  sister  want  you  to  do?"  he  asked. 


'SHAVINGS"  333 


"Ruth?  Oh,  as  I  told  you,  she  thinks  of  no  one  but  me. 
How  dreadful  it  would  be  for  me  to  tell  of  my  Middle- 
ford  record !  How  awful  if  I  lost  my  position  in  the  bank ! 
Suppose  they  discharged  me  and  the  town  learned  why! 
I've  tried  to  make  her  see  that,  compared  to  the  question  of 
Maud,  nothing  else  matters  at  all,  but  I'm  afraid  she 
doesn't  see  it  as  I  do.  She  only  sees — me." 

"Her  brother.    Um  .  .  .  yes,  I  know." 

"Yes.  Well,  we  talked  and  talked,  but  we  got  no 
where.  So  at  last  I  said  I  was  coming  out  to  thank  you 
for  what  you  did  to  save  me,  Jed.  I  could  hardly  believe  it 
then;  I  can  scarcely  believe  it  now.  It  was  too  much  for 
any  man  to  do  for  another.  And  she  said  to  talk  the  whole 
puzzle  out  with  you.  She  seems  to  have  all  the  confidence 
on  earth  in  your  judgment,  Jed.  She  is  as  willing  to  leave 
a  decision  to  you,  apparently,  as  you  profess  to  be  to  leave 
one  to  your  wooden  prophet  up  on  the  shelf  there;  what's- 
his-name — er — Isaiah." 

Jed  looked  greatly  pleased,  but  he  shook  his  head.  "I'm 
afraid  her  confidence  ain't  founded  on  a  rock,  like  the 
feller's  house  in  the  Bible,"  he  drawled.  "My  decisions  are 
liable  to  stick  half  way  betwixt  and  between,  same  as — er — 
Jeremiah's  do.  But,"  he  added,  gravely,  "I  have  been 
thinkin'  pretty  seriously  about  you  and  your  particular 
puzzle,  Charlie,  and — and  I  ain't  sure  that  I  don't  see  one 
way  out  of  the  fog.  It  may  be  a  hard  way,  and  it  may 
turn  out  wrong,  and  it  may  not  be  anything  you'll  agree  to. 
But " 

"What  is  it?  If  it's  anything  even  half  way  satisfac 
tory  I'll  believe  you're  the  wisest  man  on  earth,  Jed  Win- 
slow." 

"Well,  if  I  thought  you  was  liable  to  believe  that  I'd 
tell  you  to  send  your  believer  to  the  blacksmith's  'cause 


334  "SHAVINGS" 


there  was  somethin'  wrong  with  it.  No,  I  ain't  wise,  far 
from  it.  But,  Charlie,  I  think  you're  dead  right  about 
what  you  say  concernin'  Maud  and  her  father  and  you. 
You  can't  tell  her  without  tellin'  him.  For  your  own  sake 
you  mustn't  tell  him  without  tellin'  her.  And  you  shouldn't, 
as  a  straight  up  and  down,  honorable  man  keep  on  workin' 
for  Sam  when  you  ask  him,  under  these  circumstances,  to 
give  you  his  daughter.  You  can't  afford  to  have  her  say 
'yes'  because  she  pities  you,  nor  to  have  him  give  in  to  her 
because  she  begs  him  to.  No,  you  want  to  be  independent, 
to  go  to  both  of  'em  and  say:  'Here's  my  story  and  here 
am  I.  You  know  now  what  I  did  and  you  know,  too,  what 
I've  been  and  how  I've  behaved  since  I've  been  with  you.' 
You  want  to  say  to  Maud:  'Do  you  care  enough  for  me 
to  marry  me  in  spite  of  what  I've  done  and  where  I've 
been?'  And  to  Sam:  'Providin'  your  daughter  does  care 
for  me,  I  mean  to  marry  her  some  day  or  other.  And  you 
can't  be  on  his  pay  roll  when  you  say  that,  as  I  see  it." 

Phillips  stopped  in  his  stride. 

"You've  put  it  just  as  it  is,"  he  declared  emphatically. 
"There's  the  situation — what  then?  For  I  tell  you  now, 
Jed  Winslow,  I  won't  give  her  up  until  she  tells  me  to." 

"Course  not,  Charlie,  course  not.  But  there's  one  thing 
more — or  two  things,  rather.  There's  your  sister  and  Bab 
bie.  Suppose  you  do  haul  up  stakes  and  quit  workin'  for 
Sam  at  the  bank ;  can  they  get  along  without  your  sup 
port  ?  Without  the  money  you  earn  ?" 

The  young  man  nodded  thoughtfully.  "Yes,"  he  replied, 
"I  see  no  reason  why  they  can't.  They  did  before  I  came, 
you  know.  Ruth  has  a  little  money  of  her  own,  enough 
to  keep  her  and  Barbara  in  the  way  they  live  here  in  Or- 
ham.  She  couldn't  support  me  as  a  loafer,  of  course,  and 
you  can  bet  I  should  never  let  her  try,  but  she  could  get 


"SHAVINGS"  335 


on  quite  well  without  me.  .  .  .  Besides,  I  am  not  so  sure 
that  .  .  ." 

"Eh?    What  was  you  goin'  to  say,  Charlie?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing.     I  have  had  a  feeling,  a  slight 

suspicion,  recently,  that But  never  mind  that;  I  have 

no  right  to  even  hint  at  such  a  thing.     What  are  you  try 
ing  to  get  at,  Jed?" 

"Get  at?" 

"Yes.  Why  did  you  ask  that  question  about  Ruth  and 
Barbara?  You  don't  mean  that  you  see  a  way  out  for  me, 
do  you?" 

"W-e-e-11,  I  ...  er  ...  I  don't  caFlate  I'd  want  to  go 
so  far  as  to  say  that,  hardly.     No-o,  I  don't  know's  it's  a 
way  out — quite.     But,  as  I've  told  you  I've  been  thinkin' 
about  you  and  Maud  a  pretty  good  deal  lately  and  .  .  . 
er  .  .  .  hum  .  .  ." 

"For  heaven's  sake,  hurry  up!  Don't  go  to  sleep  now, 
man,  of  all  times.  Tell  me,  what  do  you  mean  ?  What  can 
I  do?" 

Jed's  foot  dropped  to  the  floor.  He  sat  erect  and  re 
garded  his  companion  intently  over  his  spectacles.  His  face 
was  very  grave. 

"There's  one  thing  you  can  do,  Charlie,"  he  said. 

"What  is  it?    Tell  me,  quick." 

"Just  a  minute.  Doin'  it  won't  mean  necessarily  that 
you're  out  of  your  worries  and  troubles.  It  won't  mean 
that  you  mustn't  make  a  clean  breast  of  everything  to  Maud 
and  to  Sam.  That  you  must  do  and  I  know,  from  what 
you've  said  to  me,  that  you  feel  you  must.  And  it  won't 
mean  that  your  doin'  this  thing  will  necessarily  make 
either  Maud  or  Sam  say  yes  to  the  question  you  want  to 
ask  'em.  That  question  they'll  answer  themselves,  of 
course.  But,  as  I  see  it,  if  you  do  this  thing  you'll  be  free 
and  independent,  a  man  doin'  a  man's  job  and  ready  to 


336  "SHAVINGS" 


speak  to  Sam  Hunniwell  or  anybody  else  like  a  man.  And 
that's  somethin'." 

"Something!  By  George,  it's  everything!  What  is  this 
man's  job?  Tell  me,  quick." 

And  Jed  told  him, 


CHAPTER  XX 

MR.  GABE  BEARSE  lost  another  opportunity  the 
next  morning.  The  late  bird  misses  the  early 
worm  and,  as  Gabriel  was  still  slumbering  peace 
fully  at  six  A.  M.,  he  missed  seeing  Ruth  Armstrong  and 
her  brother  emerge  from  the  door  of  the  Winslow  house  at 
that  hour  and  walk  to  the  gate  together.  Charles  was 
carrying  a  small  traveling  bag.  Ruth's  face  was  white  and 
her  eyes  were  suspiciously  damp,  but  she  was  evidently 
trying  hard  to  appear  calm  and  cheerful.  As  they  stood 
talking  by  the  gate,  Jed  Winslow  emerged  from  the  wind 
mill  shop  and,  crossing  the  lawn,  joined  them. 

The  three  talked  for  a  moment  and  then  Charles  held 
out  his  hand. 

"Well,  so  long,  Jed,"  he  said.  "If  all  goes  well  I  shall 
be  back  here  to-morrow.  Wish  me  luck." 

"I'll  be  wishin'  it  for  you,  Charlie,  all  day  and  all  night 
with  double  time  after  hours  and  no  allowance  for  meals," 
replied  Jed  earnestly.  "You  think  Sam'll  get  your  note  all 
right?" 

"Yes,  I  shall  tuck  it  under  the  bank  door  as  I  go  by.  If 
he  should  ask  what  the  business  was  which  called  me  to 
Boston  so  suddenly,  just  dodge  the  question  as  well  as  you 
can,  won't  you,  Jed  ?" 

"Sartin  sure.  He'll  think  he's  dealin*  with  that  colored 
man  that  sticks  his  head  through  the  sheet  over  to  the 
Ostable  fair,  the  one  the  boys  heave  baseballs  at.  No,  he 
won't  get  anything  out  of  me,  Charlie.  And  the  other 
letter;  that'll  get  to — to  her?" 

337 


338  "SHAVINGS" 


The  young  man  nodded  gravely.  "I  shall  mail  it  at  the 
post-office  now,"  he  said.  "Don't  talk  about  it,  please. 
Well,  Sis,  good-by — until  to-morrow." 

Jed  turned  his  head.  When  he  looked  again  Phillips 
was  walking  rapidly  away  along  the  sidewalk.  Ruth,  lean 
ing  over  the  fence,  watched  him  as  long  as  he  was  in  sight. 
And  Jed  watched  her  anxiously.  When  she  turned  he 
ventured  to  speak. 

"Don't  worry,"  he  begged.  "Don't.  He's  doin'  the  right 
thing.  I  know  he  is." 

She  wiped  her  eyes.  "Oh,  perhaps  he  is,"  she  said  sadly. 
"I  hope  he  is." 

"I  know  he  is.  I  only  wish  I  could  do  it,  too.  ...  I 
would,"  he  drawled,  solemnly,  "only  for  nineteen  or  twenty 
reasons,  the  first  one  of  'em  bein'  that  they  wouldn't  let 
me." 

She  made  no  comment  on  this  observation.  They 
walked  together  back  toward  the  house. 

"Jed,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  "it  has  come  at  last, 
hasn't  it,  the  day  we  have  foreseen  and  that  I  have  dreaded 
so?  Poor  Charlie!  Think  what  this  means  to  him." 

Jed  nodded.  "He's  puttin'  it  to  the  touch,  to  win  or  lose 
it  all,"  he  agreed,  "same  as  was  in  the  poem  he  and  I  talked 
about  that  time.  Well,  I  honestly  believe  he  feels  better 
now  that  he's  made  up  his  mind  to  do  it,  better  than  he 
has  for  many  a  long  day." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  he  does.  And  he  is  doing,  too,  what 
he  has  wanted  to  do  ever  since  he  came  here.  He  told  me 
so  when  he  came  in  from  his  long  interview  with  you  last 
night.  He  and  I  talked  until  it  was  almost  day  and  we  told 
each  other — many  things." 

She  paused.  Jed,  looking  up,  caught  her  eye.  To  his 
surprise  she  colored  and  seemed  slightly  confused. 

"He  had  not  said  anything  before,"  she  went  on  rather 


"SHAVINGS"  v  339 


hurriedly,  "because  he  thought  I  would  feel  so  terribly  to 
have  him  do  it.  So  I  should,  and  so  I  do,  of  course — in 
one  way,  but  in  another  I  am  glad.  Glad,  and  very  proud." 

"Sartin.  He'll  make  us  all  proud  of  him,  or  I  miss  my 
guess.  And,  as  for  the  rest  of  it,  the  big  question  that 
counts  most  of  all  to  him,  I  hope — yes,  I  think  that's  comin' 
out  all  right,  too.  Ruth,"  he  added,  "you  remember  what 
I  told  you  about  Sam's  talk  with  me  that  afternoon  when 
he  came  back  from  Wapatomac.  If  Maud  cares  for  him 
as  much  as  all  that  she  ain't  goin'  to  throw  him  over  on 
account  of  what  happened  in  Middleford."  i 

"No — no,  not  if  she  really  cares.  But  does  she  care — 
enough  ?" 

"I  hope  so.  I  guess  so.  But  if  she  doesn't  H's  better  for 
him  to  know  it,  and  know  it  now.  .  .  .  Dear,  dear!"  he 
added,  "how  I  do  fire  off  opinions,  don't  I  ?  A  body'd  think 
I  was  loaded  up  with  wisdom  same  as  one  of  those  ma 
chine  guns  is  with  cartridges.  About  all  I'm  loaded  with 
is  blanks,  I  cal'late." 

She  was  not  paying  attention  to  this  outburst,  but,  stand 
ing  with  one  hand  upon  the  latch  of  the  kitchen  door,  she 
seemed  to  be  thinking  deeply. 

"I  think  you  are  right,"  she  said  slowly.  "Yes,  I  think 
you  are  right.  It  is  better  to  know.  .  .  .  Jed,  suppose — 
suppose  you  cared  for  some  one,  would  the  fact  that  her 
brother  had  been  in  prison  make  any  difference  in — in  your 
feeling?" 

Jed  actually  staggered.  She  was  not  looking  at  him,  nor 
did  she  look  at  him  now. 

"Eh?"  he  cried.    "Why— why,  Ruth,  what— what ?" 

She  smiled  faintly.  "And  that  was  a  foolish  question, 
too,"  she  said.  "Foolish  to  ask  you,  of  all  men.  .  .  .  Well, 
I  must  go  on  and  get  Babbie's  breakfast.  Poor  child,  she 
is  going  to  miss  her  Uncle  Charlie.  We  shall  all  miss  him. 


340  "SHAVINGS" 


.  .  .  But  there,  I  promised  him  I  would  be  brave.  Good 
morning,  Jed." 

"But— but,  Ruth,  what— what ?" 

She  had  not  heard  him.  The  door  closed.  Jed  stood 
staring  at  it  for  some  minutes.  Then  he  crossed  the  lawn 
to  his  own  little  kitchen.  The  performances  he  went 
through  during  the  next  hour  would  have  confirmed  the 
opinion  of  Mr.  Bearse  and  his  coterie  that  "Shavings" 
Winslow  was  "next  door  to  loony."  He  cooked  a  breakfast, 
but  how  he  cooked  it  or  of  what  it  consisted  he  could  not 
have  told.  The  next  day  he  found  the  stove-lid  lifter  on 
a  plate  in  the  ice  chest.  Whatever  became  of  the  left-over 
pork  chop  which  should  have  been  there  he  had  no  idea. 

Babbie  came  dancing  in  at  noon  on  her  way  home  from 
school.  She  found  her  Uncle  Jed  in  a  curious  mood,  a 
mood  which  seemed  to  be  a  compound  of  absent-minded 
ness  and  silence  broken  by  sudden  fits  of  song  and  hilarity. 
He  was  sitting  by  the  bench  when  she  entered  and  was 
holding  an  oily  rag  in  one  hand  and  a  piece  of  emery  paper 
in  the  other.  He  was  looking  neither  at  paper  nor  rag,  nor 
at  anything  else  in  particular  so  far  as  she  could  see,  and 
he  did  not  notice  her  presence  at  all.  Suddenly  he  began 
to  rub  the  paper  and  the  rag  together  and  to  sing  at  the 
top  of  his  voice: 

"  'He's  my  lily  of  the  valley, 

My   bright   and   mornin'   star; 

He's  the  fairest  of  ten  thousand  to  my  soul — Hallelujah! 
He's  my  di-dum-du-dum-di-dum — 
Di ' " 

Barbara  burst  out  laughing.  Mr.  Winslow's  hallelujah 
chorus  stopped  in  the  middle  and  he  turned. 

"Eh?"  he  exclaimed,  looking  over  his  spectacles.  "Oh, 
it's  you!  Sakes  alive,  child,  how  do  you  get  around  s« 


"SHAVINGS"  341 


quiet?  Haven't  borrowed  the  cat's  feet  to  walk  on,  have 
you  ?" 

Babbie  laughed  again  and  replied  that  she  guessed  the 
cat  wouldn't  lend  her  feet. 

"She  would  want  'em  herself,  prob'ly,  Uncle  Jed,"  she 
added.  "Don't  you  think  so?" 

Jed  appeared  to  consider. 

"Well,"  he  drawled,  "she  might,  I  presume  likely,  be  as 
selfish  and  unreasonable  as  all  that.  But  then  again  she 
might  .  .  .  hum  .  .  .  what  was  it  the  cat  walked  on  in 
that  story  you  and  I  was  readin'  together  a  spell  ago  ?  That 
— er — Sure  Enough  story — you  know.  By  Kipling,  'twas." 

"Oh,  I  know!  It  wasn't  a  Sure  Enough  story;  it  was 
a  'Just  So'  story.  And  the  name  of  it  was  'The  Cat  Who 
Walked  by  His  Wild  Lone.' " 

Jed  looked  deeply  disappointed.  "Sho!"  he  sighed.  "I 
thought  'twas  on  his  wild  lone  he  walked.  I  was  thinkin' 
that  maybe  he'd  gone  walkin'  on  that  for  a  spell  and  had 
lent  you  his  feet.  .  .  .  Hum.  .  .  .  Dear,  dear ! 

"  'Oh,  krust  and  obey, 

For  there's  no  other  way 
To  be  de-de-de-di-dum — 
But  to  trust  and  obey.' " 

Here  he  relapsed  into  another  daydream.  After  wait 
ing  for  a  moment,  Babbie  ventured  to  arouse  him. 

"Uncle  Jed,"  she  asked,  "what  were  you  doing  with 
those  things  in  your  hand — when  I  came  in,  you  know? 
That  cloth  and  that  piece  of  paper.  You  looked  so  funny, 
rubbing  them  together,  that  I  couldn't  help  laughing." 

Jed  regarded  her  solemnly.  "It's  emery  paper,"  he 
said;  "like  fine  sandpaper,  you  know.  And  the  cloth's  got 
ile  in  it.  I'm  cleanin'  the  rust  off  this  screwdriver.  I 


342  "SHAVINGS" 


hadn't  used  it  for  more'n  a  fortni't  and  it  got  pretty  rusty 
this  damp  weather." 

The  child  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"But,  Uncle  Jed/'  she  said,  "there  isn't  any  screwdriver. 
Anyhow  I  don't  see  any.  You  were  just  rubbing  the  sand 
paper  and  the  cloth  together  and  singing.  That's  why  it 
looked  so  funny." 

Jed  inspected  first  one  hand  and  then  the  other. 

"Hum!"  he  drawled.  "Hu-um!  .  .  .  Well,  I  declare! 
.  .  .  Now  you  mention  it,  there  don't  seem  to  be  any  screw 
driver,  does  there  ?  .  .  .  Here  'tis  on  the  bench.  .  .  .  And  I 
was  rubbin'  the  sandpaper  with  ile,  or  ilin'  the  sandpaper 
with  the  rag,  whichever  you  like.  .  .  .  Hum,  ye-es,  I 
should  think  it  might  have  looked  funny.  .  .  .  Babbie,  if 
you  see  me  walkin'  around  without  any  head  some  mornin' 
don't  be  scared.  You'll  know  that  that  part  of  me  ain't 
got  out  of  bed  yet,  that's  all." 

Barbara  leaned  her  chin  on  both  small  fists  and  gazed  at 
him.  "Uncle  Jed,"  she  said,  "you've  been  thinking  about 
something,  haven't  you?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Why,  yes,  I — I  guess  likely  maybe  I  have. 
How  did  you  know  ?" 

"Oh,  'cause  I  did.  Petunia  and  I  know  you  ever  and 
ever  so  well  now  and  we're  used  to — to  the  way  you  do. 
Mamma  says  things  like  forgetting  the  screwdriver  are 
your  ex-eccen-tricks.  Is  this  what  you've  been  thinking 
about  a  nice  eccen-trick  or  the  other  kind?" 

Jed  slowly  shook  his  head.  "I — I  don't  know,"  he 
groaned.  "I  dasn't  believe —  -  There,  there !  That's  enough 
of  my  tricks.  How's  Petunia's  hair  curlin'  this  mornin'?" 

After  the  child  left  him  he  tried  to  prepare  his  dinner, 
but  it  was  as  unsatisfactory  a  meal  as  breakfast  had  been. 
He  couldn't  eat,  he  couldn't  work.  He  could  only  think, 
and  thinking  meant  alternate  periods  of  delirious  hope  and 


"SHAVINGS"  343 


black  depression.  He  sat  down  before  the  little  table  in  his 
living-room  and,  opening  the  drawer,  saw  Ruth  Arm 
strong's  pictured  face  looking  up  at  him. 

"Jed!    Oh,  Jed!" 

It  was  Maud  Hunniwell's  voice.  She  had  entered  the 
shop  and  the  living-room  without  his  hearing  her  and  now 
she  was  standing  behind  him  with  her  hand  upon  his 
shoulder.  He  started,  turned  and  looked  up  into  her  face. 
And  one  glance  caused  him  to  forget  himself  and  even  the 
pictured  face  in  the  drawer  for  the  time  and  to  think  only 
of  her. 

"Maud!"  he  exclaimed.     "Maud!" 

Her  hair,  usually  so  carefully  arranged,  was  disordered; 
her  hat  was  not  adjusted  at  its  usual  exact  angle;  and  as 
for  the  silver  fox,  it  hung  limply  backside  front.  Her  eyes 
were  red  and  she  held  a  handkerchief  in  one  hand  and  a 
letter  in  the  other. 

"Oh,  Jed !"  she  cried. 

Jed  put  out  his  hands.  "There,  there,  Maud!"  he  said. 
"There,  there,  little  girl." 

They  had  been  confidants  since  her  babyhood,  these  two. 
She  came  to  him  now,  and  putting  her  head  upon  his 
shoulder,  burst  into  a  storm  of  weeping.  Jed  stroked  her 
hair. 

"There,  there,  Maud,"  he  said  gently.  "Don't,  girlie, 
don't.  It's  goin'  to  be  all  right,  I  know  it.  ...  And  so  you 
came  to  me,  did  you?  I'm  awful  glad  you  did,  I  am  so." 

"He  asked  me  to  come,"  she  sobbed.  "He  wrote  it — in — 
in  the  letter.'' 

Jed  led  her  over  to  a  chair.  "Sit  down,  girlie,"  he  said, 
"and  tell  me  all  about  it.  You  got  the  letter,  then  ?" 

She  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  said,  chokingly;  "it — it  just 
came.  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  Father  did  not  come  home  to  din- 


344  "SHAVINGS" 


ner  to-day.  He  would  have — have  seen  me  and — and — • 
oh,  why  did  he  do  it,  Jed  ?  Why  ?" 

Jed  shook  his  head.  "He  had  to  do  it,  Maud,"  he  an 
swered.  "He  wanted  to  do  the  right  thing  and  the  honor 
able  thing.  And  you  would  rather  have  had  him  do  that, 
wouldn't  you?" 

"Oh — oh,  I  don't  know.  But  why  didn't  he  come  to  me 
and  tell  me?  Why  did  he  go  away  and — and  write  me  he 
had  gone  to  enlist?  Why  didn't  he  come  to  me  first?  Oh. 
.  .  .  Oh,  Jed,  how  could  he  treat  me  so  ?" 

She  was  sobbing  again.  Jed  took  her  hand  and  patted 
it  with  his  own  big  one. 

"Didn't  he  tell  you  in  the  letter  why?"  he  asked. 

"Yes— yes,  but " 

"Then  let  me  tell  you  what  he  told  me,  Maud.  He  and 
I  talked  for  up'ards  of  three  solid  hours  last  night  and  I 
cal'late  I  understood  him  pretty  well  when  he  finished. 
Now  let  me  tell  you  what  he  said  to  me." 

He  told  her  the  substance  of  his  long  interview  with 
Phillips.  He  told  also  of  Charles'  coming  to  Orham,  of 
why  and  how  he  took  the  position  in  the  bank,  of  his  other 
talks  with  him — Winslow. 

"And  so,"  said  Jed,  in  conclusion,  "you  see,  Maud,  what 
a  dreadful  load  the  poor  young  feller's  been  carryin'  ever 
since  he  came  and  especially  since  he — well,  since  he  found 
out  how  much  he  was  carin'  for  you.  Just  stop  for  a 
minute  and  think  what  a  load  'twas.  His  conscience  was 
troublin'  him  all  the  time  for  keepin'  the  bank  job,  for  sailin' 
under  false  colors  in  your  eyes  and  your  dad's.  He  was 
workin'  and  pinchin'  to  pay  the  two  thousand  to  the  man 
in  Middleford.  He  had  hangin'  over  him  every  minute 
the  practical  certainty  that  some  day — some  day  sure — a 
person  was  comin'  along  who  knew  his  story  and  then  the 
fat  would  all  be  in  the  fire.  And  when  it  went  into  that 


"SHAVINGS"  345 


fire  he  wouldn't  be  the  only  one  to  be  burnt;  there  would 
be  his  sister  and  Babbie — and  you;  most  of  all,  you." 

She  nodded.  "Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  she  cried.  "But  why — 
oh,  why  didn't  he  come  to  me  and  tell  me  ?  Why  did  he  go 
without  a  word?  He  must  have  known  I  would  forgive 
him,  no  matter  what  he  had  done.  It  wouldn't  have  made 
any  difference,  his  having  been  in — in  prison.  And  now — 
now  he  may  be — oh,  Jed,  he  may  be  killed !" 

She  was  sobbing  again.  Jed  patted  her  hand.  "We  won't 
talk  about  his  bein'  killed/'  he  said  stoutly.  "I  know  he 
won't  be;  I  feel  it  in  my  bones.  But,  Maud,  can't  you  see 
why  he  didn't  come  and  tell  you  before  he  went  to  enlist? 
Suppose  he  had.  If  you  care  for  him  so  much — as  much 
as  I  judge  you  do " 

She  interrupted.  "Care  for  him!"  she  repeated.  "Oh, 
Jed!" 

"Yes,  yes,  dearie,  I  know.  Well,  then,  carin'  for  him  like 
that,  you'd  have  told  him  just  what  you  told  me  then ;  that 
about  his  havin'  done  what  he  did  and  havin'  been  where 
he's  been  not  makin'  any  difference.  And  you'd  have  begged 
and  coaxed  him  to  stay  right  along  in  the  bank,  maybe? 
Eh?" 

"Yes,"  defiantly.     "Of  course  I  would.     Why  not?" 

"And  your  father,  would  you  have  told  him?" 

She  hesitated.  "I  don't  know,"  she  said,  but  with 
less  assurance.  "Perhaps  so,  later  on.  It  had  all  been  kept 
a  secret  so  far,  all  the  whole  dreadful  thing,  why  not  a  lit 
tle  longer?  Besides — besides,  Father  knows  how  much 
Charlie  means  to  me.  Father  and  I  had  a  long  talk  about 
him  one  night  and  I — I  think  he  knows.  And  he  is  very 
fond  of  Charlie  himself ;  he  has  said  so  so  many  times.  He 
would  have  forgiven  him,  too,  if  I  had  asked  him.  He  al 
ways  does  what  I  ask." 

"Yes,  ye-es,  I  cal'late  that's  so.     But,  to  be  real  honest 


346  "SHAVINGS" 


now,  Maud,  would  you  have  been  satisfied  to  have  it  that 
way?  Would  you  have  felt  that  it  was  the  honorable 
thing  for  Charlie  to  do?  Isn't  what  he  has  done  better? 
He's  undertakin'  the  biggest  and  finest  job  a  man  can  do 
in  this  world  to-day,  as  I  see  it.  It's  the  job  he'd  have 
taken  on  months  ago  if  he'd  felt  'twas  right  to  leave  Ruth 
— Mrs.  Armstrong — so  soon  after — after  bein'  separated 
from  her  so  long.  He's  taken  on  this  big  job,  this  man's 
job,  and  he  says  to  you :  'Here  I  am.  You  know  me  now. 
Do  you  care  for  me  still?  If  you  do  will  you  wait  till  I 
come  back?'  And  to  your  dad,  to  Sam,  he  says:  'I  ain't 
workin'  for  you  now.  I  ain't  on  your  payroll  and  so  I  can 
speak  out  free  and  independent.  If  your  daughter'll  have 
me  I  mean  to  marry  her  some  day.'  Ain't  that  the  better 
way,  Maud?  Ain't  that  how  you'd  rather  have  him  feel — 
and  do?" 

She  sighed  and  shook  her  head.  "I — I  suppose  so,"  she 
admitted.  "Oh,  I  suppose  that  you  and  he  are  right.  In 
his  letter  he  says  just  that.  Would  you  like  to  see  it;  that 
part  of  it,  I  mean?" 

Jed  took  the  crumpled  and  tear-stained  letter  from  her 
hand. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,  Maud,"  he  said,  "that  writin' 
this  was  his  own  idea.  It  was  me  that  suggested  his  en- 
listin',  although  I  found  he'd  been  thinkin'  of  it  all  along, 
but  I  was  for  havin'  him  go  and  enlist  and  then  come  back 
and  tell  you  and  Sam.  But  he  says,  'No.  I'll  tell  her  in 
a  letter  and  then  when  I  come  back  she'll  have  had  time  to 
think  it  over.  She  won't  say  'yes'  then  simply  because  she 
pities  me  or  because  she  doesn't  realize  what  it  means.  No, 
I'll  write  her  and  then  when  I  come  back  after  enlistin' 
and  go  to  her  for  my  answer,  I'll  know  it's  given  deliber 
ate.'  " 

She  nodded.     "He  says  that  there,"  she  said  chokingly. 


"SHAVINGS"  347 


"But  he — he  must  have  known.     Oh,  Jed,  how  can  I  let 
him  go — to  war?" 

That  portion  of  the  letter  which  Jed  was  permitted  to 
read  was  straightforward  and  honest  and  manly.  There 
were  no  appeals  for  pity  or  sympathy.  The  writer  stated 
his  case  and  left  the  rest  to  her,  that  was  all.  And  Jed, 
reading  between  the  lines,  respected  Charles  Phillips  more 
than  ever. 

He  and  Maud  talked  for  a  long  time  after  that.  And, 
at  last,  they  reached  a  point  which  Jed  had  tried  his  best 
to  avoid.  Maud  mentioned  it  first.  She  had  been  speaking 
of  his  friendship  for  her  lover  and  for  herself. 

"I  don't  see  what  we  should  have  done  without  your 
help,  Jed,"  she  said.  "And  when  I  think  what  you  have 
done  for  Charlie !  Why,  yes — and  now  I  know  why  you 
pretended  to  have  found  the  four  hundred  dollars  Father 
thought  he  had  lost.  Pa  left  it  at  Wapatomac,  after  all; 
you  knew  that?" 

Jed  stirred  uneasily.  He  was  standing  by  the  window, 
looking  out  into  the  yard. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said  hastily,  "I  know.  Don't  talk  about 
it,  Maud.  It  makes  me  feel  more  like  a  fool  than  usual 
and  ...  er  ...  don't  seem  as  if  that  was  hardly  neces 
sary,  does  it?" 

"But  I  shall  talk  about  it.  When  Father  came  home  that 
night  he  couldn't  talk  of  anything  else.  He  called  it  the 
prize  puzzle  of  the  century.  You  had  gi  ;en  him  four  hun 
dred  dollars  of  your  own  money  and  pretended  it  was  his 
and  that  you  had — had  stolen  it,  Jed.  He  burst  out  laugh 
ing  when  he  told  me  that  and  so  did  I.  The  idea  of  your 
stealing  anything !  You !" 

Jed  smiled,  feebly. 

'  'Twas  silly  enough,  I  give  in,"  he  admitted.    "You  see," 
he  added,  in  an  apologetic  drawl,  "nine-tenths  of  this  town 


348  "SHAVINGS" 


think  I'm  a  prize  idiot  and  sometimes  I  feel  it's  my  duty 
to  live  up— or  down — to  my  reputation.  This  was  one  of 
the  times,  that's  all.  I'm  awful  glad  Sam  got  his  own 
money  back,  though." 

"The  money  didn't  amount  to  anything.  But  what  you 
did  was  the  wonderful  thing.  For  now  I  understand  why 
you  did  it.  You  thought — you  thought  Charlie  had  taken 
it  to — to  pay  that  horrid  man  in  Middleford.  That  is  what 
you  thought  and  you 

Jed  broke  in.  "Don't!  Don't  put  me  in  mind  of  it, 
Maud,"  he  begged.  "I'm  so  ashamed  I  don't  know  what 
to  do.  You  see — you  see,  Charlie  had  said  how  much  he 
needed  about  that  much  money  and — and  so,  bein'  a — a 
woodenhead,  I  naturally — 

"Oh,  don't !  Please  don't !  It  was  wonderful  of  you, 
Jed.  You  not  only  gave  up  your  own  money,  but  you  were 
willing  to  sacrifice  your  good  name;  to  have  Father,  your 
best  friend,  think  you  a  thief.  And  you  did  it  all  to  save 
Charlie  from  exposure.  How  could  you,  Jed?" 

Jed  didn't  answer.  He  did  not  appear  to  have  heard 
her.  He  was  gazing  steadily  out  into  the  yard. 

"How  could  you,  Jed?"  repeated  Maud.  "It  was  won 
derful!  I  can't  understand.  I " 

She  stopped  at  the  beginning  of  the  sentence.  She  was 
standing  beside  the  little  writing-table  and  the  drawer 
was  open.  She  looked  down  and  there,  in  that  drawer,  she 
saw  the  framed  photograph  of  Ruth  Armstrong.  She  re 
membered  that  Jed  had  been  sitting  at  that  desk  and  gaz 
ing  down  into  that  drawer  when  she  entered  the  room.  She 
looked  at  him  now.  He  was  standing  by  the  window  peer 
ing  out  into  the  yard.  Ruth  had  come  from  the  back 
door  of  the  little  Winslow  house  and  was  standing  on  the 
step  looking  up  the  road,  evidently  waiting  for  Barbara  to 


"SHAVINGS"  349 


come  from  school.  And  Jed  was  watching  her.  Maud 
saw  the  look  upon  his  face — and  she  understood. 

A  few  moments  later  she  and  Ruth  met.  Maud  had 
tried  to  avoid  that  meeting  by  leaving  Jed's  premises  by 
the  front  door,  the  door  of  the  outer  shop.  But  Ruth  had 
walked  to  the  gate  to  see  if  Babbie  was  coming  and,  as 
Maud  emerged  from  the  shop,  the  two  women  came  face 
to  face.  For  an  instant  they  did  not  speak.  Maud,  ex 
cited  and  overwrought  by  her  experience  with  the  letter 
and  her  interview  with  Jed,  was  still  struggling  for  self- 
control,  and  Ruth,  knowing  that  the  other  must  by  this 
time  have  received  that  letter  and  learned  her  brother's 
secret,  was  inclined  to  be  coldly  defiant.  She  was  the  first 
to  break  the  silence.  She  said  "Good  afternoon"  and 
passed  on.  But  Maud,  after  another  instant  of  hesita 
tion,  turned  back. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Armstrong,"  she  faltered,  "may  I  speak  with 
you  just — just  for  a  few  minutes?" 

And  now  Ruth  hesitated.  Whi^;  was  it  the  girl  wished 
to  speak  about?  If  it  was  to  reproach  her  or  her  brother, 
or  to  demand  further  explanations  or  apologies,  the  inter 
view  had  far  better  not  take  place.  She  was  in  no  mood 
to  listen  to  reproaches.  Charles  was,  in  her  eyes,  a  martyr 
and  a  hero  and  now,  largely  because  of  this  girl,  he  was 
going  away  to  certain  danger,  perhaps  to  death.  She  had 
tried,  for  his  sake,  not  to  blame  Maud  Hunniwell  because 
Charles  had  fallen  in  love  with  her,  but  she  was  not,  just 
then,  inclined  toward  extreme  forbearance.  So  she  hesi 
tated,  and  Maud  spoke  again. 

"May  I  speak  with  you  for  just  a  few  minutes?"  she 
pleaded.  "I  have  just  got  his  letter  and — oh,  may  I  ?" 

Ruth  silently  led  the  way  to  the  door  of  the  little  house. 

"Come  in,"  she  said. 


350  "SHAVINGS" 


Together  they  entered  the  sitting-room.  Ruth  asked  her 
caller  to  be  seated,  but  Maud  paid  no  attention. 

"I  have  just  got  his  letter,"  she  faltered.  "I — I 
wanted  you  to  know — to  know  that  it  doesn't  make  any 
difference.  I — I  don't  care.  If  he  loves  me,  and — and  he 
says  he  does — I  don't  care  for  anything  else.  .  .  .  Oh, 
please  be  nice  to  me,"  she  begged,  holding  out  her  hands. 
"You  are  his  sister  and — and  I  love  him  so !  And  he  is 
going  away  from  both  of  us." 

So  Ruth's  coldness  melted  like  a  fall  of  snow  in  early 
April,  and  the  April  showers  followed  it.  She  and  Maud 
wept  in  each  other's  arms  and  were  femininely  happy  ac 
cordingly.  And  for  at  least  a  half  hour  thereafter  they 
discussed  the  surpassing  excellencies  of  Charlie  Phillips,  the 
certainty  that  Captain  Hunniwell  would  forgive  him  be 
cause  he  could  not  help  it  and  a  variety  of  kindred  and 
satisfying  subjects.  And  at  last  Jed  Winslow  drifted  into 
the  conversation. 

"And  so  you  have  b  ~n  talking  it  over  with  Jed,"  ob 
served  Ruth.  "Isn't  it  odd  how  we  all  go  to  him  when  we 
are  in  trouble  or  need  advice  or  anything?  I  always  do 
and  Charlie  did,  and  you  say  that  you  do,  too." 

Maud  nodded.  "He  and  I  have  been  what  Pa  calls 
'chummies'  ever  since  I  can  remember,"  she  said  simply. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  feel  that  I  can  confide  in  him  to 
such  an  extent.  Somehow  I  always  have.  And,  do  you 
know,  his  advice  is  almost  always  good?  If  I  had  taken 
it  from  the  first  we  might,  all  of  us,  have  avoided  a  deal 
of  trouble.  I  have  cause  to  think  of  Jed  Winslow  as  some 
thing  sure  and  safe  and  trustworthy.  Like  a  nice,  kindly 
old  watch  dog,  you  know.  A  queer  one  and  a  funny  one, 
but  awfully  nice.  Babbie  idolizes  him." 

Maud  nodded  again.  She  was  regarding  her  companion 
with  an  odd  expression. 


"SHAVINGS"  351 


"And  when  I  think,"  continued  Ruth,  "of  how  he  was 
willing  to  sacrifice  his  character  and  his  honor  and  even  to 
risk  losing  your  father's  friendship — how  he  proclaimed 
himself  a  thief  to  save  Charlie !  When  I  think  of  that  I 
scarcely  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry.  I  want  to  do  both, 
of  course.  It  was  perfectly  characteristic  and  perfectly 
adorable — and  so  absolutely  absurd.  I  love  him  for  it,  and 
as  yet  I  haven't  dared  thank  him  for  fear  I  shall  cry  again, 
as  I  did  when  Captain  Hunniwell  told  us.  Yet,  when  I 
think  of  his  declaring  he  took  the  money  to  buy  a  suit  of 
clothes,  I  feel  like  laughing.  Oh,  he  is  a  dear,  isn't  he?" 

Now,  ordinarily,  Maud  would  have  found  nothing  in  this 
speech  to  arouse  resentment.  There  was  the  very  slight, 
and  in  this  case  quite  unintentional,  note  of  patronage  in  it 
that  every  one  used  when  referring  to  Jed  Winslow.  She 
herself  almost  invariably  used  that  note  when  speaking 
of  him  or  even  to  him.  But  now  her  emotions  were  so 
deeply  stirred  and  the  memories  of  her  recent  interview 
with  Jed,  of  his  understanding  and  his  sympathy,  were  so 
vivid.  And,  too,  she  had  just  had  that  glimpse  into  his 
most  secret  soul.  So  her  tone,  as  she  replied  to  Ruth's 
speech,  was  almost  sharp. 

"He  didn't  do  it  for  Charlie,"  she  declared.  "That  is,  of 
course  he  did,  but  that  wasn't  the  real  reason." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Don't  you  know  what  I  mean  ?    Don't  you  really  know  ?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  don't.  What  are  you  talking  about? 
Didn't  do  it  for  Charlie?  Didn't  say  that  he  was  a  thief 
and  give  your  father  his  own  money,  do  you  mean?  Do 
you  mean  he  didn't  do  that  for  Charlie?" 

"Yes.    He  did  it  for  you." 

"Forme?    For  me?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Oh-  can't  you  understand?     It's  absurd  and 


352  "SHAVINGS" 


foolish  and  silly  and  everything,  but  I  know  it's  true.  Jed 
Winslow  is  in  love  with  you,  Mrs.  Armstrong." 

Ruth  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  stared  at  her  as  if  she 
thought  her  insane. 

"In  love  with  me?"  she  repeated.  "Jed  Winslow !  Maud, 
don't !" 

"It's  true,  I  tell  you.  I  didn't  know  until  just  now,  al 
though  if  it  had  been  any  one  but  Jed  I  should  have  sus 
pected  for  some  time.  But  to-day  when  I  went  in  there 
I  saw  him  sitting  before  his  desk  looking  down  into  an 
open  drawer  there.  He  has  your  photograph  in  that 
drawer.  And,  later  on,  when  you  came  out  into  the  yard, 
I  saw  him  watching  you;  I  saw  his  face  and  that  was 
enough.  .  .  .  Oh,  don't  you  see?"  impatiently.  "It  ex 
plains  everything.  You  couldn't  understand,  nor  could  I, 
why  he  should  sacrifice  himself  so  for  Charlie.  But  be 
cause  Charlie  was  your  brother — that  is  another  thing. 
Think,  just  think!  You  and  I  would  have  guessed  it  be 
fore  if  he  had  been  any  one  else  except  just  Jed.  Yes, 
he  is  in  love  with  you.  .  .  .  It's  crazy  and  it's  ridiculous 
and — and  all  that,  of  course  it  is.  But,"  with  a  sudden 
burst  of  temper,  "if  you — if  you  dare  to  laugh  I'll  never 
speak  to  you  again." 

But  Ruth  was  not  laughing. 

it  was  a  cloudy  day  and  Jed's  living-room  was  almost 
dark  when  Ruth  entered  it.  Jed,  who  had  been  sitting 
by  the  desk,  rose  when  she  came  in. 

"Land  sakes,  Ruth,"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  you,  ain't  it?  Let 
me  light  a  lamp.  I  was  settin'  here  in  the  dark  like  a  ... 
like  a  hen  gone  to  roost.  .  .  .  Eh?  Why,  it's  'most  supper 
time,  ain't  it  ?  Didn't  realize  'twas  so  late.  I'll  have  a  light 
for  you  in  a  jiffy." 

He  was  on  his  way  to  the  kitchen,  but  she  stopped  him. 


"SHAVINGS"  353 


"No,"  she  said  quickly.  "Don't  get  a  light.  I'd  rather 
not,  please.  And  sit  down  again,  Jed;  just  as  you  were. 
There,  by  the  desk ;  that's  it.  You  see,"  she  added,  "I — I — 
well,  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  and — and  I  can  tell  it 
better  in  the  dark,  I  think." 

Jed  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  He  could  not  see  her  face 
plainly,  but  she  seemed  oddly  confused  and  embarrassed. 

"Sho !"  he  drawled.  "Well,  I'm  sure  I  ain't  anxious 
about  the  light,  myself.  You  know,  I've  always  had  a 
feelin'  that  the  dark  was  more  becomin'  to  my  style  of 
beauty.  Take  me  about  twelve  o'clock  in  a  foggy  night,  in 
a  cellar,  with  the  lamp  out,  and  I  look  pretty  nigh  hand 
some — to  a  blind  man.  .  .  .  Um-hm." 

She  made  no  comment  on  this  confession.  Jed,  after 
waiting  an  instant  for  her  to  speak,  ventured  a  reminder. 

"Don't  mind  my  talkin'  foolishness,"  he  said,  apologetic 
ally.  "I'm  feelin'  a  little  more  like  myself  than  I  have  for 
• — for  a  week  or  so,  and  when  I  feel  that  way  I'm  bound  to 
be  foolish.  Just  gettin'  back  to  nature,  as  the  magazine 
folks  tell  about,  I  cal'late  'tis." 

She  leaned  forward  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  sleeve. 

"Don't !"  she  begged.  "Don't  talk  about  yourself  in  that 
way,  Jed.  When  I  think  what  a  friend  you  have  been  to 
me  and  mine  I — I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  say  such  things. 
I  have  never  thanked  you  for  what  you  did  to  save  my 
brother  when  you  thought  he  had  gone  wrong  again.  I 
can't  thank  you  now — I  can't." 

Her  voice  broke.    Jed  twisted  in  his  seat. 

"Now — now,  Ruth,"  he  pleaded,  "do  let's  forget  that. 
I've  made  a  fool  of  myself  a  good  many  times  in  my  life — 
more  gettin'  back  to  nature,  you  see — but  I  hope  I  never 
made  myself  out  quite  such  a  blitherin'  numbskull  as  I  did 
that  time.  Don't  talk  about  it,  don't.  I  ain't  exactly  what 
you'd  call  proud  of  it." 


354  "SHAVINGS" 


"But  I  am.  And  so  is  Charlie.  But  I  won't  talk  of  it 
if  you  prefer  I  shouldn't.  .  .  .  Jed "  she  hesitated,  fal 
tered,  and  then  began  again :  "Jed,"  she  said,  "I  told 
you  when  I  came  in  that  I  had  something  to  tell  you.  I 
have.  I  have  told  no  one  else,  not  even  Charlie,  because 
he  went  away  before  I  was — quite  sure.  But  now  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  because  ever  since  I  came  here  you  have 
been  my  father  confessor,  so  to  speak.  You  realize  that, 
don't  you?" 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin. 

"W-e-e-11,"  he  observed,  with  great  deliberation,  "I  don't 
know's  I'd  go  as  far  as  to  say  that.  Babbie  and  I've  agreed 
that  I'm  her  back-step-uncle,  but  that's  as  nigh  relation  as 
I've  ever  dast  figure  I  was  to  the  family." 

"Don't  joke  about  it.  You  know  what  I  mean.  Well, 
Jed,  this  is  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  It  is  very  per 
sonal  and  very  confidential  and  you  must  promise  not  to 
tell  any  one  yet.  Will  you  ?" 

"Eh?    Why,  sartin,  of  course." 

"Yes.  I  hope  you  may  be  glad  to  hear  it.  It  would 
make  you  glad  to  know  that  I  was  happy,  wouldn't  it?" 

For  the  first  time  Jed  did  not  answer  in  the  instant.  The 
shadows  were  deep  in  the  little  living-room  now,  but  Ruth 
felt  that  he  was  leaning  forward  and  looking  at  her. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  after  a  moment.  "Yes  .  .  .  but — I  don't 
know  as  I  know  exactly  what  you  mean,  do  I?" 

"You  don't — yet.  But  I  hope  you  will  be  glad  when  you 
do.  Jed,  you  like  Major  Grover,  don't  you?" 

Jed  did  not  move  perceptibly,  but  she  heard  his  chair 
creak.  He  was  still  leaning  forward  and  she  knew  his 
gaze  was  fixed  upon  her  face. 

"Yes,"  he  said  very  slowly.    "I  like  him  first-rate." 

"I'm  glad.  Because — well,  because  /  have  come  to  like 
him  so  much.  Jed,  he — he  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife." 


'SHAVINGS"  355 


There  was  absolute  stillness  in  the  little  room.  Then, 
after  what  seemed  to  her  several  long  minutes,  he  spoke. 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes,  I  see  .  .  ."  he  said.     "And  you?  You've 
» 

"At  first  I  could  not  answer  him.  My  brother's  secret 
was  in  the  way  and  I  could  not  tell  him  that.  But  last 
night — or  this  morning — Charlie  and  I  discussed  all  our 
affairs  and  he  gave  me  permission  to  tell — Leonard.  So 
when  he  came  to-day  I  told  him.  He  said  it  made  no  dif 
ference.  And — and  I  am  going  to  marry  him,  Jed." 

Jed's  chair  creaked  again,  but  that  was  the  only  sound. 
Ruth  waited  until  she  felt  that  she  could  wait  no  longer. 
Then  she  stretched  out  a  hand  toward  him  in  the  dark. 

"Oh,  Jed."  she  cried,  "aren't  you  going  to  say  anything 
to  me — anything  at  all?" 

She  heard  him  draw  a  long  breath.     Then  he  spoke. 

"Why — why,  yes,  of  course,"  he  said.  "I — I — of  course 
I  am.  I — you  kind  of  got  me  by  surprise,  that's  all.  .  .  . 
I  hadn't — hadn't  expected  it,  you  see." 

"I  know.  Even  Charlie  was  surprised.  But  you're  glad, 
for  my  sake,  aren't  you,  Jed?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Yes,  oh,  yes!     I'm— I'm  glad." 

"I  hope  you  are.  If  it  were  not  for  poor  Charlie's  going 
away  and  the  anxiety  about  him  and  his  problem  I  should 
be  very  happy — happier  than  I  believed  I  ever  could  be 
again.  You're  glad  of  that,  aren't  you,  Jed?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  of  course.  .  .  ." 

"And  you  will  congratulate  me?  You  like  Major  Grover? 
Please  say  you  do." 

Jed  rose  slowly  from  his  chair.  He  passed  a  hand  in 
dazed  fashion  across  his  forehead. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  again.  "The  major's  a  fine  man.  ...  I 
do  congratulate  you,  ma'am." 

"Oh,  Jed !    Not  that  way.    As  if  you  meant  it." 


35$  "SHAVINGS" 


"Eh?  .  .  .  I — I  do  mean  it.  ...  I  hope — I  hope  you'll 
be  real  happy,  both  of  you,  ma'am." 

"Oh,  not  that— Ruth." 

"Yes — yes,  sartin,  of  course  .  .  .  Ruth,  I  mean." 

She  left  him  standing  by  the  writing  table.  After  she  had 
gone  he  sank  slowly  down  into  the  chair  again.  Eight 
o'clock  struck  and  he  was  still  sitting  there.  .  .  .  And  Fate 
chose  that  time  to  send  Captain  Sam  Hunniwell  striding 
up  the  walk  and  storming  furiously  at  the  back  door. 

"Jed !"  roared  the  captain.     "Jed  Winslow  !     Jed !" 

Jed  lifted  his  head  from  his  hands.  He  most  decidedly 
did  not  wish  to  see  Captain  Sam  or  any  one  else. 

"Jed !"  roared  the  captain  again. 

Jed  accepted  the  inevitable.  "Here  I  am,"  he  groaned, 
miserably. 

The  captain  did  not  wait  for  an  invitation  to  enter.  Hav 
ing  ascertained  that  the  owner  of  the  building  was  withip, 
he  pulled  the  door  open  and  stamped  into  the  kitchen. 

"Where  are  you?"  he  demanded. 

"Here,"  replied  Jed,  without  moving. 

"Here?  Where's  here?  .  .  .  Oh,  you're  in  there,  are 
you?  Hidin'  there  in  the  dark,  eh?  Afraid  to  show  me 
your  face,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  By  the  gracious  king,  I 
should  think  you  would  be !  What  have  you  got  to  say  to 
me,  eh?" 

Apparently  Jed  had  nothing  to  say.  Captain  Sam  did 
not  wait. 

"And  you've  called  yourself  my  friend !"  he  sneered 
savagely.  "Friend — you're  a  healthy  friend,  Jed  Winslow ! 
What  have  you  got  to  say  to  me  ...  eh  ?" 

Jed  sighed.  "Maybe  I'd  be  better  able  to  say  it  if  I 
knew  what  you  was  talkin'  about,  Sam,"  he  observed, 
drearily. 

"Know!     I  guess  likely  you  know  all  right.     And  ac- 


"SHAVINGS"  357 


cording  to  her  you've  known  all  along.  What  do  you  mean 
by  lettin'  me  take  that — that  state's  prison  bird  into  my 
bank?  And  lettin'  him  associate  with  my  daughter  and — • 
and  .  .  .  Oh,  by  gracious  king!  When  I  think  that  you 
knew  what  he  was  all  along,  I — I " 

His  anger  choked  off  the  rest  of  the  sentence.  Jed 
rubbed  his  eyes  and  sat  up  in  his  chair.  For  the  first  time 
since  the  captain's  entrance  he  realized  a  little  of  what  the 
latter  said.  Before  that  he  had  been  conscious  only  of  his 
own  dull,  aching,  hopeless  misery. 

"Hum.  ...  So  you've  found  out,  Sam,  have  you?"  he 
mused. 

"Found  out !  You  bet  I've  found  out !  I  only  wish  to 
the  Lord  I'd  found  out  months  ago,  that's  all." 

"Hum.  .  .  .  Charlie  didn't  tell  you?  .  .  .  No-o,  no,  he 
couldn't  have  got  back  so  soon." 

"Back  be  hanged!  I  don't  know  whether  he's  back  or 
not,  blast  him.  But  I  ain't  a  fool  all  the  time,  Jed  Win- 
slow,  not  all  the  time  I  ain't.  And  when  I  came  home  to 
night  and  found  Maud  cryin'  to  herself  and  no  reason  for 
it,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  I  set  out  to  learn  that  reason.  And 
I  did  learn  it.  She  told  me  the  whole  yarn,  the  whole  of 
it.  And  I  saw  the  scamp's  letter.  And  I  dragged  out  of 
her  that  you — you  had  known  all  the  time  what  he  was, 
and  had  never  told  me  a  word.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  could  you, 
Jed !  How  could  you !" 

Jed's  voice  was  a  trifle  less  listless  as  he  answered. 

"It  was  told  me  in  confidence,  Sam,"  he  said.  "I 
couldn't  tell  you.  And,  as  time  went  along  and  I  began  to 
see  what  a  fine  boy  Charlie  really  was,  I  felt  sure  'twould 
all  come  out  right  in  the  end.  And  it  has,  as  I  see  it." 

"What?" 

"Yes,  it's  come  out  all  right.  Charlie's  gone  to  fight, 
same  as  every  decent  young  feller  wants  to  do.  He  thinks 


358  "SHAVINGS" 


the  world  of  Maud  and  she  does  of  him,  but  he  was  honor 
able  enough  not  to  ask  her  while  he  worked  for  you,  Sam. 
He  wrote  the  letter  after  he'd  gone  so  as  to  make  it  'easier 
for  her  to  say  no,  if  she  felt  like  sayin'  it.  And  when  he 
came  back  from  enlistin'  he  was  goin'  straight  to  you  to 
make  a  clean  breast  of  everything.  He's  a  good  boy,  Sam. 
He's  had  hard  luck  and  he's  been  in  trouble,  but  he's  all  right 
and  I  know  it.  An3  you  know  it,  too,  Sam  Hunniwell. 
Down  inside  you  you  know  it,  too.  Why,  you've  told  me 
a  hundred  times  what  a  fine  chap  Charlie  Phillips  was  and 
how  much  you  thought  of  him,  and 

Captain  Hunniwell  interrupted.  "Shut  up!"  he  com 
manded.  "Don't  talk  to  me  that  way !  Don't  you  dare  to ! 
I  did  think  a  lot  of  him,  but  that  was  before  I  knew  what 
he'd  done  and  where  he'd  been.  Do  you  cal'late  I'll  let  my 
daughter  marry  a  man  that's  been  in  state's  prison  ?" 

"But,  Sam,  it  wan't  all  his  fault,  really.  And  he'll  go 
straight  from  this  on.  I  know  he  will." 

"Shut  up !  He  can  go  to  the  devil  from  this  on,  but  he 
shan't  take  her  with  him.  .  .  .  Why,  Jed,  you  know  what 
Maud  is  to  me.  She's  all  I've  got.  She's  all  I've  contrived 
for  and  worked  for  in  this  world.  Think  of  all  the  plans 
I've  made  for  her !" 

"I  know,  Sam,  I  know;  but  pretty  often  our  plans  don't 
work  out  just  as  we  make  'em.  Sometimes  we  have  to 
change  'em — or  give  'em  up.  And  you  want  Maud  to  be 
happy." 

"Happy !  I  want  to  be  happy  myself,  don't  I  ?  Do  you 
think  I'm  goin'  to  give  up  all  my  plans  and  all  my  happi 
ness  just — just  because  she  wants  to  make  a  fool  of  her 
self  ?  Give  'em  up !  It's  easy  for  you  to  say  'give  up.' 
What  do  you  know  about  it?" 

It  was  the  last  straw.  Jed  sprang  to  his  feet  so  sud 
denly  that  his  chair  fell  to  the  floor. 


"SHAVINGS"  359 


"Know  about  it!"  he  burst  forth,  with  such  fierce  indig 
nation  that  the  captain  actually  gasped  in  astonishment. 
"Know  about  it !"  repeated  Jed.  "What  do  I  know  about 
givin'  up  my  own  plans  and — and  hopes,  do  you  mean? 
Oh,  my  Lord  above !  Ain't  I  been  givin'  'em  up  and  givin' 
'em  up  all  my  life  long?  When  I  was  a  boy  didn't  I  give 
up  the  education  that  might  have  made  me  a — a  man  in 
stead  of — of  a  town  laughin'  stock?  While  Mother  lived 
was  I  doin'  much  but  give  up  myself  for  her  ?  I  ain't  sayin' 
'twas  any  more'n  right  that  I  should,  but  I  did  it,  didn't 
I  ?  And  ever  since  it's  been  the  same  way.  I  tell  you,  I've 
come  to  believe  that  life  for  me  means  one  'give  up'  after 
the  other  and  won't  mean  anything  but  that  till  I  die.  And 
you — you  ask  me  what  I  know  about  it !  You  do !" 

Captain  Sam  was  so  taken  aback  that  he  was  almost 
speechless.  In  all  his  long  acquaintance  with  Jed  Winslow 
he  had  never  seen  him  like  this. 

"Why — why,  Jed!"  he  stammered.  But  Jed  was  not 
listening.  He  strode  across  the  room  and  seized  his  visitor 
by  the  arm. 

"You  go  home,  Sam  Hunniwell,"  he  ordered.  "Go  home 
and  think — think,  I  tell  you.  All  your  life  you've  had  just 
what  I  haven't.  You  married  the  girl  you  wanted  and 
you  and  she  were  happy  together.  You've  been  looked  up 
to  and  respected  here  in  Orham ;  folks  never  laughed  at 
you  or  called  you  'town  crank.'  You've  got  a  daughter  and 
she's  a  good  girl.  And  the  man  she  wants  to  marry  is  a 
good  man,  and,  if  you'll  give  him  a  chance  and  he  lives 
through  the  war  he's  goin'  into,  he'll  make  you  proud  of 
him.  You  go  home,  Sam  Hunniwell !  Go  home,  and  thank 
God  you're  what  you  are  and  as  you  are.  .  .  .  No,  I  won't 
talk !  I  don't  want  to  talk !  ...  Go  home." 

He  had  been  dragging  his  friend  to  the  door.    Now  he 


360  "SHAVINGS" 


actually  pushed  him  across  the  threshold  and  slammed  the 
door  between  them. 

"Well,  for  .  .  .  the  Lord  .  .  .  sakes !"  exclaimed  Cap 
tain  Hunniwell. 

The  scraping  of  the  key  in  the  lock  was  his  only  answer. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  CHILD  spends  time  and  thought  and  energy  upon 
the  building  of  a  house  of  blocks.  By  the  time  it 
is  nearing  completion  it  has  become  to  him  a  very 
real  edifice.  Therefore,  when  it  collapses  into  an  ungrace 
ful  heap  upon  the  floor  it  is  poor  consolation  to  be  reminded 
that,  after  all,  it  was  merely  a  block  house  and  couldn't  be 
expected  to  stand. 

Jed,  in  his  own  child-like  fashion,  had  reared  his  moon 
shine  castle  beam  by  beam.  At  first  he  had  regarded  it  as 
moonshine  and  had  refused  to  consider  the  building  of  it 
anything  but  a  dangerously  pleasant  pastime.  And  then, 
little  by  little,  as  his  dreams  changed  to  hopes,  it  had  be 
come  more  and  more  real,  until,  just  before  the  end,  it  was 
the  foundation  upon  which  his  future  was  to  rest.  And 
down  it  came,  and  there  was  his  future  buried  in  the  ruins. 

And  it  had  been  all  moonshine  from  the  very  first.  Jed, 
sitting  there  alone  in  his  little  living-room,  could  see  now 
that  it  had  been  nothing  but  that.  Ruth  Armstrong,  young, 
charming,  cultured — could  she  have  thought  of  linking  her 
life  with  that  of  Jedidah  Edgar  Wilfred  Winslow,  forty- 
five,  "town  crank"  and  builder  of  windmills?  Of  course 
not — and  again  of  course  not.  Obviously  she  never  had 
thought  of  such  a  thing.  She  had  been  grateful,  that  was 
all;  perhaps  she  had  pitied  him  just  a  little  and  behind  her 
expressions  of  kindliness  and  friendship  was  pity  and  lit 
tle  else.  Moonshine — moonshine — moonshine.  And,  oh, 
what  a  fool  he  had  been !  What  a  poor,  silly  fool ! 

So  the  night  passed  and  morning  came  and  with  it  a  cer- 


362  "SHAVINGS" 


tain  degree  of  bitterly  philosophic  acceptance  of  the  situa 
tion.  He  was  a  fool;  so  much  was  sure.  He  was  of  no 
use  in  the  world,  he  never  had  been.  People  laughed  at 
him  and  he  deserved  to  be  laughed  at.  He  rose  from  the 
bed  upon  which  he  had  thrown  himself  some  time  during 
the  early  morning  hours  and,  after  eating  a  cold  mouth 
ful  or  two  in  lieu  of  breakfast,  sat  down  at  his  turning 
lathe.  He  could  make  children's  whirligigs,  that  was  the 
measure  of  his  capacity. 

All  the  forenoon  the  lathe  hummed.  Several  times  steps 
sounded  on  the  front  walk  and  the  latch  of  the  shop  door 
rattled,  but  Jed  did  not  rise  from  his  seat.  He  had  not 
unlocked  that  door,  he  did  not  mean  to  for  the  present.  He 
did  not  want  to  wait  on  customers ;  he  did  not  want  to  see 
callers;  he  did  not  want  to  talk  or  be  talked  to.  He  did 
not  want  to  think,  either,  but  that  he  could  not  help. 

And  he  could  not  shut  out  all  the  callers.  One,  who 
came  a  little  after  noon,  refused  to  remain  shut  out.  She 
pounded  the  door  and  shouted  "Uncle  Jed"  for  some  few 
minutes;  then,  just  as  Jed  had  begun  to  think  she  had  given 
up  and  gone  away,  he  heard  a  thumping  upon  the  window 
pane  and,  looking  up,  saw  her  laughing  and  nodding  out 
side. 

"I  see  you,  Uncle  Jed,"  she  called.     "Let  me  in,  please." 

So  Jed  was  obliged  to  let  her  in  and  she  entered  with 
a  skip  and  a  jump,  quite  unconscious  that  her  "back-step- 
uncle"  was  in  any  way  different,  either  in  feelings  or  desire 
for  her  society,  than  he  had  been  for  months. 

"Why  did  you  have  the  door  locked,  Uncle  Jed  ?"  she  de 
manded.  "Did  you  forget  to  unlock  it?" 

Jed,  without  looking  at  her,  muttered  something  to  the 
effect  that  he  cal'lated  he  must  have. 

"Um-hm,"  she  observed,  with  a  nod  of  comprehension. 
"I  thought  that  was  it.  You  did  it  once  before,  you  know. 


"SHAVINGS"  363 


It  was  a  ex-eccen-trick,  leaving  it  locked  was,  I  guess. 
Don't  you  think  it  was  a — a — one  of  those  kind  of  tricks, 
Uncle  Jed  ?" 

Silence,  except  for  the  hum  and  rasp  of  the  lathe. 

"Don't  you,  Uncle  Jed?"  repeated  Barbara. 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  I  presume  likely  so." 

Babbie,  sitting  on  the  lumber  pile,  kicked  her  small  heels 
together  and  regarded  him  with  speculative  interest. 

"Uncle  Jed,"  she  said,  after  a  few  moments  of  silent 
consideration,  "what  do  you  suppose  Petunia  told  me  just 
now?" 

No  answer. 

"What  do  you  suppose  Petunia  told  me?"  repeated  Bab 
bie.  "Something  about  you  'twas,  Uncle  Jed." 

Still  Jed  did  not  reply.  His  silence  was  not  deliberate; 
he  had  been  so  absorbed  in  his  own  pessimistic  musings 
that  he  had  not  heard  the  question,  that  was  all.  Barbara 
tried  again. 

"She  told  me  she  guessed  you  had  been  thinking  awfly 
hard  about  something  this  time,  else  you  wouldn't  have  so 
many  eccen-tricks  to-day." 

Silence  yet.     Babbie  swallowed  hard : 

"I — I  don't  think  I  like  eccen-tricks,  Uncle  Jed,"  she  fal 
tered. 

Not  a  word.  Then  Jed,  stooping  to  pick  up  a  piece  of 
wood  from  the  pile  of  cut  stock  beside  the  lathe,  was  con 
scious  of  a  little  sniff.  He  looked  up.  His  small  visitor's 
lip  was  quivering  and  two  big  tears  were  just  ready  to 
overflow  her  lower  lashes. 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Mercy  sakes  alive!"  he  exclaimed.  "Why, 
what's  the  matter?" 

The  lip  quivered  still  more.  "I — I  don't  like  to  have 
you  not  speak  to  me,"  sobbed  Babbie.  "You — you  never 
did  it  so — so  long  before." 


364  "SHAVINGS" 


That  appeal  was  sufficient.  Away,  for  the  time,  went 
Jed's  pessimism  and  his  hopeless  musings.  He  forgot  that 
he  was  a  fool,  the  "town  crank,"  and  of  no  use  in  the  world. 
He  forgot  his  own  heartbreak,  chagrin  and  disappoint 
ment.  A  moment  later  Babbie  was  on  his  knee,  hiding  her 
emotion  in  the  front  of  his  jacket,  and  he  was  trying  his 
best  to  soothe  her  with  characteristic  Winslow  nonsense. 

"You  mustn't  mind  me,  Babbie,"  he  declared.  "My — 
my  head  ain't  workin'  just  right  to-day,  seems  so.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if — if  I  wound  it  too  tight,  or  somethin' 
like  that." 

Babbie's  tear-stained  face  emerged  from  the  jacket  front. 

"Wound  your  head  too  tight,  Uncle  Jed?"  she  cried. 

"Ye-es,  yes.  I  was  kind  of  extra  absent-minded  yester 
day  and  I  thought  I  wound  the  clock,  but  I  couldn't  have 
done  that  'cause  the  clock's  stopped.  Yet  I  know  I  wound 
somethin'  and  it's  just  as  liable  to  have  been  my  head  as  any 
thing  else.  You  listen  just  back  of  my  starboard  ear  there 
and  see  if  I'm  tickin'  reg'lar." 

The  balance  of  the  conversation  between  the  two  was  of 
a  distinctly  personal  nature. 

"You  see,  Uncle  Jed,"  said  Barbara,  as  she  jumped  from 
his  knee  preparatory  to  running  off  to  school,  "I  don't  like 
you  to  do  eccen-tricks  and  not  talk  to  me.  I  don't  like  it 
at  all  and  neither  does  Petunia.  You  won't  do  any  more 
— not  for  so  long  at  a  time,  will  you,  Uncle  Jed  ?" 

Jed  sighed.     "I'll  try  not  to,"  he  said,  soberly. 

She  nodded.  "Of  course,"  she  observed,  "we  shan't 
mind  you  doing  a  few,  because  you  can't  help  that.  But 
you  mustn't  sit  still  and  not  pay  attention  when  we  talk 
for  ever  and  ever  so  long.  I — I  don't  know  precactly  what 
I  and  Petunia  would  do  if  you  wouldn't  talk  to  us,  Uncle 
Jed." 


"SHAVINGS"  365 


"Don't,  eh?  Humph!  I  presume  likely  you'd  get  along 
pretty  well.  I  ain't  much  account." 

Barbara  looked  at  him  in  horrified  surprise. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Jed !"  she  cried,  "you  mustn't  talk  so !  You 
mustn't!  Why — why,  you're  the  bestest  man  there  is. 
And  there  isn't  anybody  in  Orham  can  make  windmills  the 
way  you  can.  I  asked  Teacher  if  there  was  and  she  said 
no.  So  there !  And  you're  a  great  cons'lation  to  all  our 
family,"  she  added,  solemnly.  "We  just  couldn't  ever — 
ever  do  without  you." 

When  the  child  went  Jed  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  lock 
the  door  after  her;  consequently  his  next  callers  entered 
without  difficulty  and  came  directly  to  the  inner  shop.  Jed, 
once  more  absorbed  in  gloomy  musings — not  quite  as 
gloomy,  perhaps;  somehow  the  clouds  had  not  descended 
quite  so  heavily  upon  his  soul  since  Babbie's  visit — looked 
up  to  see  there  standing  behind  him  Maud  Hunniwell  and 
Charlie  Phillips. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Eh?"  he  cried,  delightedly. 
"Well,  well,  so  you're  back,  Charlie,  safe  and  sound.  Well, 
well!" 

Phillips  grasped  the  hand  which  Jed  had  extended  and 
shook  it  heartily. 

"Yes,  I'm  back,"  he  said. 

"Um-hm.  .  .  .  And — er — how  did  you  leave  Uncle  Sam  ? 
Old  feller's  pretty  busy  these  days,  'cordin'  to  the  papers." 

"Yes,  I  imagine  he  is." 

"Um-hm.  .  .  .  Well,  did  you — er — make  him  happy? 
Give  his  army  the  one  thing  needful  to  make  it — er — per 
fect?" 

Charlie  laughed.  "If  you  mean  did  I  add  myself  to  it," 
he  said,  "I  did.  I  am  an  enlisted  man  now,  Jed.  As  soon 
as  Von  Hindenburg  hears  that,  he'll  commit  suicide,  I'm 
sure." 


366  "SHAVINGS" 


Jed  insisted  on  shaking  hands  with  him  again.  "You're 
a  lucky  feller,  Charlie,"  he  declared.  "I  only  wish  I  had 
your  chance.  Yes,  you're  lucky — in  a  good  ma  y  ways," 
with  a  glance  at  Maud.  "And,  speaking  of  Uncle  Sam," 
he  added,  "reminds  me  of — well,  of  Daddy  Sam.  How's 
he  behavin'  this  mornin'?  I  judge  from  the  fact  that  you 
two  are  together  he's  a  little  more  rational  than  he  was 
last  night.  .  .  .  Eh?" 

Phillips  looked  puzzled,  but  Maud  evidently  understood. 
"Daddy  has  been  very  nice  to-day,"  she  said,  demurely. 
"Charlie  had  a  long  talk  with  him  and — and " 

"And  he  was  mighty  fine,"  declared  Phillips  with  em 
phasis.  "We  had  a  heart  to  heart  talk  and  I  held  nothing 
back.  I  tell  you,  Jed,  it  did  me  good  to  speak  the  truth, 
whole  and  nothing  but.  I  told  Captain  Hunniwell  that  I 
didn't  deserve  his  daughter.  He  agreed  with  me  there,  of 
course." 

"Nonsense !"  interrupted  Maud,  with  a  happy  laugh. 

"Not  a  bit  of  nonsense.  We  agreed  that  no  one  was  good 
enough  for  you.  But  I  told  him  I  wanted  that  daughter 
very  much  indeed  and,  provided  she  was  agreeable  and 
was  willing  to  wait  until  the  war  was  over  and  I  came  back ; 
taking  it  for  granted,  of  course,  that  I ' 

He  hesitated,  bit  his  lip  and  looked  apprehensively  at 
Miss  Hunniwell.  Jed  obligingly  helped  him  over  the  thin  ice. 

"Provided  you  come  back  a  major  general  or — or  a  com 
modore  or  a  corporal's  guard  or  somethin',"  he  observed. 

"Yes,"  gratefully,  "that's  it.  I'm  sure  to  be  a  high  pri 
vate  at  least.  Well,  to  cut  it  short,  Jed,  I  told  Captain 
Hunniwell  all  my  past  and  my  hopes  and  plans  for  the  fu 
ture.  He  was  forgiving  and  forbearing  and  kinder  than 
I  had  any  right  to  expect.  We  understand  each  other  now 
and  he  is  willing,  always  provided  that  Maud  is  willing,  too, 


"SHAVINGS"  367 


to  give  me  my  opportunity  to  make  good.  That  is  all  any 
one  could  ask." 

"Yes,  I  should  say  'twas.  .  .  .  But  Maud,  how  about 
her?  You  had  consider'ble  of  a  job  makin'  her  see  that 
you  was  worth  waitin'  for,  I  presume  likely,  eh?" 

Maud  laughed  and  blushed  and  bade  him  behave  himself. 
Jed  demanded  to  be  told  more  particulars  concerning  the 
enlisting.  So  Charles  told  the  story  of  his  Boston  trip, 
while  Maud  looked  and  listened  adoringly,  and  Jed,  watch 
ing  the  young  people's  happiness,  was,  for  the  time,  almost 
happy  himself. 

When  they  rose  to  go  Charlie  laid  a  hand  on  Jed's  shoul 
der. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  he  said,  "what  a  brick  you've  been 
through  all  this.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  old  man,  I 
don't  know  how  it  might  have  ended.  We  owe  you  about 
everything,  Maud  and  I.  You've  been  a  wonder,  Jed." 

Jed  waved  a  deprecating  hand.  "Don't  talk  so,  Charlie," 
he  said,  gruffly. 

"But,  I  tell  you,  I- 

"Don't.  .  .  .  You  see,"  with  a  twist  of  the  lip,  "it  don't 
do  to  tell  a — a  screech  owl  he's  a  canary.  He's  liable  to 
believe  it  by  and  by  and  start  singin'  in  public.  .  .  .  Then 
he  finds  out  he's  just  a  fool  owl,  and  has  been  all  along. 
Humph !  Me  a  wonder !  .  .  .  A  blunder,  you  mean." 

Neither  of  the  young  people  had  ever  heard  him  use  that 
tone  before.  They  both  cried  out  in  protest. 

"Look  here,  Jed "  began  Phillips. 

Maud  interrupted.  "Just  a  moment,  Charlie,"  she  said. 
"Let  me  tell  him  what  Father  said  last  night.  When  he 
went  out  he  left  me  crying  and  so  miserable  that  I  wanted 
to  die.  He  had  found  Charlie's  letter  and  we — we  had  had 
a  dreadful  scene  and  he  had  spoken  to  me  as  I  had  never 
heard  him  speak  before.  And,  later,  after  he  came  back 


368  "SHAVINGS" 


I  was  almost  afraid  to  have  him  come  into  the  room  where 
I  was.  But  he  was  just  as  different  as  could  be.  He  told 
me  he  had  been  thinking  the  matter  over  and  had  decided 
that,  perhaps,  he  had  been  unreasonable  and  silly  and  cross. 
Then  he  said  some  nice  things  about  Charlie,  quite  differ 
ent  from  what  he  said  at  first.  And  when  we  had  made  it 
all  up  and  I  asked  him  what  had  changed  his  mind  so  he 
told  me  it  was  you,  Jed.  He  said  he  came  to  you  and  you 
put  a  flea  in  his  ear.  He  wouldn't  tell  me  what  he  meant, 
but  he  simply  smiled  and  said  you  had  put  a  flea  in  his 
ear." 

Jed,  himself,  could  not  help  smiling  faintly. 

"W-e-e-11,"  he  drawled,  "I  didn't  use  any  sweet  ile  on  the 
job,  that's  sartin.  If  he  said  I  pounded  it  in  with  a  club 
'twouldn't  have  been  much  exaggeration." 

"So  we  owe  you  that,  too,"  continued  Maud.  "And, 
afterwards,  when  Daddy  and  I  were  talking  we  agreed  that 
you  were  probably  the  best  man  in  Orham.  There!" 

And  she  stooped  impulsively  and  kissed  him. 

Jed,  very  much  embarrassed,  shook  his  head.  "That — 
er — insect  I  put  in  your  pa's  ear  must  have  touched  both 
your  brains,  I  cal'late,"  he  drawled.  But. he  was  pleased, 
nevertheless.  If  he  was  a  fool  it  was  something  to  have 
people  think  him  a  good  sort  of  fool. 

It  was  almost  four  o'clock  when  Jed's  next  visitor  came. 
He  was  the  one  man  whom  he  most  dreaded  to  meet  just 
then.  Yet  he  hid  his  feelings  and  rose  with  hand  out 
stretched. 

"Why,  good  afternoon,  Major!"  he  exclaimed.  "Real 
glad  to  see  you.  Sit  down." 

Grover  sat.  "Jed,"  he  said,  "Ruth  tells  me  that  you 
know  of  my  good  fortune.  Will  you  congratulate  me?" 

Jed's  reply  was  calm  and  deliberate  and  he  did  his  best 
to  make  it  sound  whole-hearted  and  sincere. 


"SHAVINGS"  369 


"I  sartin  do,"  he  declared.  "Anybody  that  wouldn't 
congratulate  you  on  that  could  swap  his  head  for  a  billiard 
ball  and  make  money  on  the  dicker;  the  ivory  he'd  get 
would  be  better  than  the  bone  he  gave  away.  .  .  .  Yes, 
Major  Grover,  you're  a  lucky  man." 

To  save  his  life  he  could  not  entirely  keep  the  shake  from 
his  voice  as  he  said  it.  If  Grover  noticed  it  he  put  it  down 
to  the  sincerity  of  the  speaker. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "I  realize  my  luck,  I  assure  you. 
And  now,  Jed,  first  of  all,  let  me  thank  you.  Ruth  has  told 
me  what  a  loyal  friend  and  counselor  you  have  been  to 
her  and  she  and  I  both  are  very,  very  grateful." 

Jed  stirred  uneasily.  "Sho,  sho !"  he  protested.  "I 
haven't  done  anything.  Don't  talk  about  it,  please.  I — 
I'd  rather  you  wouldn't." 

"Very  well,  since  you  wish  it,  I  won't.  But  she  and  I 
will  always  think  of  it,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  I  dropped 
in  here  now  just  to  tell  you  this  and  to  thank  you  person 
ally.  And  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  too,  that  I  think  we  need 
not  fear  Babbitt's  talking  too  much.  Of  course  it  would 
not  make  so  much  difference  now  if  he  did ;  Charlie  will  be 
away  and  doing  what  all  decent  people  will  respect  him  for 
doing,  and  you  and  I  can  see  that  Ruth  does  not  suffer. 
But  I  think  Babbitt  will  keep  still.  I  hope  I  have  fright 
ened  him;  I  certainly  did  my  best." 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin. 

"I'm  kind  of  sorry  for  Phin,"  he  observed. 

"Are  you?     For  heaven's  sake,  why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  When  you've  been  goin'  around 
ever  since  January  loaded  up  to  the  muzzle  with  spite  and 
sure-thing  vengeance,  same  as  an  old-fashioned  horse  pis 
tol  used  to  be  loaded  with  powder  and  ball,  it  must  be  kind 
of  hard,  just  as  you're  set  to  pull  trigger,  to  have  to  quit 


370  "SHAVINGS" 


and  swaller  the  whole  charge.     Liable  to  give  you  dyspepsy, 
if  nothin'  worse,  I  should  say." 

Grover  smiled.  "The  last  time  I  saw  Babbitt  he  ap 
peared  to  be  nearer  apoplexy  than  dyspepsia,"  he  said. 

"Ye-es.  Well,  I'm  sorry  for  him,  I  really  am.  It  must 
be  pretty  dreadful  to  be  so  cross-grained  that  you  can't 
like  even  your  own  self  without  feelin'  lonesome.  .  .  . 
Yes,  that's  a  bad  state  of  affairs.  ...  I  don't  know  but 
I'd  almost  rather  be  'town  crank'  than  that." 

The  Major's  farewell  remark,  made  as  he  rose  to  go, 
contained  an  element  of  mystery. 

"I  shall  have  another  matter  to  talk  over  with  you  soon, 
Jed,"  he  said.  "But  that  will  come  later,  when  my  plans 
are  more  complete.  Good  afternoon  and  thank  you  once 
more.  You've  been  pretty  fine  through  all  this  secret- 
keeping  business,  if  you  don't  mind  my  saying  so.  And  a 
mighty  true  friend.  So  true,"  he  added,  "that  I  shall,  in 
all  probability,  ask  you  to  assume  another  trust  for  me  be 
fore  long.  I  can't  think  of  any  one  else  to  whom  I  could 
so  safely  leave  it.  Good-by." 

'One  more  visitor  came  that  afternoon.  To  be  exact,  he 
did  not  come  until  evening.  He  opened  the  outer  door  very 
softly  and  tiptoed  into  the  living-room.  Jed  was  sitting 
by  the  little  "gas  burner"  stove,  one  knee  drawn  up  and 
his  foot  swinging.  There  was  a  saucepan  perched  on  top 
of  the  stove.  A  small  hand  lamp  on  the  table  furnished 
the  only  light.  He  did  not  hear  the  person  who  entered 
and  when  a  big  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder  he  started 
violently. 

"Eh?"  he  exclaimed,  his  foot  falling  with  a  thump  to 
the  floor.  "Who?  ...  Oh,  it's  you,  ain't  it,  Sam?  .  .  . 
Good  land,  you  made  me  jump!  I  must  be  gettin'  nerv 
ous,  I  guess." 

Captain  Sam  looked  at  him  in  some  surprise.     "Gracious 


"SHAVINGS"  371 


king,  I  believe  you  are,"  he  observed.  "I  didn't  think  you 
had  any  nerves,  Jed.  No,  nor  any  temper,  either,  until  last 
night.  You  pretty  nigh  blew  me  out  of  water  then.  Ho, 
ho!" 

Jed  was  much  distressed.  "Sho,  sho,  Sam,"  he  stam 
mered;  "I  ;  awful  sorry  about  that.  I — I  wasn't  feelin' 
exactly — er — first  rate  or  I  wouldn't  have  talked  to  you 
that  way.  I — I — you  know  I  didn't  mean  it,  don't .  you, 
Sam?" 

The  captain  pulled  forward  a  chair  and  sat  down.  He 
chuckled.  "Well,  I  must  say  it  did  sound  as  if  you  meant 
it,  Jed,"  he  declared.  "Yes,  sir,  I  cal'late  the  average  per 
son  would  have  been  willin'  to  risk  a  small  bet — say  a 
couple  of  million — that  you  meant  it.  When  you  ordered 
me  to  go  home  I  just  tucked  my  tail  down  and  went.  Yes, 
sir,  if  you  didn't  mean  it  you  had  me  fooled.  Ho,  ho!" 

Jed's  distress  was  keener  than  ever.  "Mercy  sakes 
alive!"  he  cried.  "Did  I  tell  you  to  go  home,  Sam?  Yes, 
yes,  I  remember  I  did.  Sho,  sho!  .  .  .  Well,  I'm  awful 
sorry.  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me.  'Twan't  any  way  for  a 
feller  like  me  to  talk — to  you." 

Captain  Sam's  big  hand  fell  upon  his  friend's  knee  with 
a  stinging  slap.  "You're  wrong  there,  Jed,"  he  declared, 
with  emphasis.  "  'Twas  just  the  way  for  you  to  talk  to 
me.  I  needed  it ;  and,"  with  another  chuckle,  "I  got  it,  too, 
didn't  I?  Ho,  ho!" 

"Sam,  I  snum,  I " 

"Sshh!  You're  goin'  to  say  you're  sorry  again;  I  can 
see  it  in  your  eye.  Well,  don't  you  do  it.  You  told  me 
to  go  home  and  think,  Jed,  and  those  were  just  the  orders 
I  needed.  I  did  go  home  and  I  did  think.  .  .  .  Humph ! 
Thinkin's  a  kind  of  upsettin'  job  sometimes,  ain't  it,  es 
pecially  when  you  sit  right  down  and  think  about  yourself, 


372  "SHAVINGS" 


what  you  are  compared  to  what  you  think  you  are.  Ever 
think  about  yourself  that  way,  Jed?" 

It  was  a  moment  before  Jed  answered.  Then  all  he  said 
was,  "Yes." 

"I  mean  have  you  done  it  lately?  Just  given  yourself 
right  up  to  doin'  it?" 

Jed  sighed.  "Ye-es,"  he  drawled.  "I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  I  had,  Sam." 

"Well,  probably  'twan't  as  disturbin'  a  job  with  you  as 
'twas  for  me.  You  didn't  have  as  high  a  horse  to  climb 
down  off  of.  I  thought  and  thought  and  thought  and  the 
more  I  thought  the  meaner  the  way  I'd  acted  and  talked 
to  Maud  seemed  to  me.  I  liked  Charlie;  I'd  gone  around 
this  county  for  months  braggin'  about  what  a  smart,  able 
chap  he  was.  As  I  told  you  once  I'd  rather  have  had  her 
marry  him  than  anybody  else  I  know.  And  I  had  to  give 
in  that  the  way  he'd  behaved — his  goin'  off  and  enlistin', 
settlin'  that  before  he  asked  her  or  spoke  to  me,  was  a 
square,  manly  thing  to  do.  The  only  thing  I  had  against 
him  was  that  Middleford  mess.  And  I  believe  he's  a  good 
boy  in  spite  of  it." 

"He  is,  Sam.  That  Middleford  trouble  wan't  all  his 
fault,  by  any  means !" 

"I  know.  He  told  me  this  mornin'.  Well,  then,  if  he 
and  Maud  love  each  other,  thinks  I,  what  right  have  I  to 
say  they  shan't  be  happy,  especially  as  they're  both  willin' 
to  wait  ?  Why  should  I  say  he  can't  at  least  have  his  chance 
to  make  good  ?  Nigh's  I  could  make  out  the  only  reason  was 
my  pride  and  the  big  plans  I'd  made  for  my  girl.  I  came 
out  of  my  thinkin'  spell  with  my  mind  made  up  that  what 
ailed  me  was  selfishness  and  pride.  So  I  talked  it  over  with 
her  last  night  and  with  Charlie  to-day.  The  boy  shall 
have  his  chance.  Both  of  'em  shall  have  their  chance,  Jed. 
They're  happy  and — well,  I  feel  consider'ble  better  myself. 


"SHAVINGS"  373 


All  else  there  is  to  do  is  to  just  hope  to  the  Lord  it  turns 
©ut  right." 

"That's  about  all,  Sam.  And  I  feel  pretty  sure  it's  goin' 
to." 

"Yes,  I  know  you  do.  Course  those  big  plans  of  mine 
that  I  used  to  make — her  marryin'  some  rich  chap,  gover 
nor  or  senator  or  somethin' — they're  all  gone  overboard. 
I  used  to  wish  and  wish  for  her,  like  a  young-one  wishin' 
on  a  load  cf  hay,  or  the  first  star  at  night,  or  somethin'. 
But  if  we  can't  have  our  wishes,  why — why — then  we'll 
do  without  'em.  Eh?" 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin.  "Sam,"  he  said,  "I've  been  doin' 
a  little  thinkin'  myself.  .  .  .  Ye-es,  consider'ble  thinkin'. 
.  .  .  Fact  is,  seems  now  as  if  I  hadn't  done  anything  but 
think  since  the  world  was  cranked  up  and  started  turnin' 
over.  And  I  guess  there's  only  one  answer.  When  we 
can't  have  our  wishes  then  it's  up  to  us  to — to " 

"Well,  to  what?" 

"Why,  to  stick  to  our  jobs  and  grin,  that's  about  all. 
'Tain't  much,  I  know,  especially  jobs  like  some  of  us  have, 
but  it's  somethin'." 

Captain  Sam  nodded.  "It's  a  good  deal,  Jed,"  he  de 
clared.  "It's  some  stunt  to  grin — in  these  days." 

Jed  rose  slowly  to  his  feet.  He  threw  back  his  shoulders 
with  the  gesture  of  one  determined  to  rid  himself  of  a 
burden. 

"It  is — it  is  so,  Sam,"  he  drawled.  "But  maybe  that 
makes  it  a  little  more  worth  while.  What  do  you  think?" 

His  friend  regarded  him  thoughtfully.  "Jed,"  he  said, 
"I  never  saw  anybody  who  had  the  faculty  of  seein'  straight 
through  to  the  common  sense  inside  of  things  the  way  you 
have.  Maud  and  I  were  talkin'  about  that  last  night.  'Go 
home  and  think  and  thank  God/  you  said  to  me.  And  that 
was  what  I  needed  to  do.  'Enlist  and  you'll  be  independ- 


374  "SHAVINGS" 

ent,'  you  said  to  Charlie  and  it  set  him  on  the  road.  'Stick 
to  your  job  and  grin/  you  say  now.  How  do  you  do  it, 
Jed?  Remember  one  time  I  told  you  I  couldn't  decide 
whether  you  was  a  dum  fool  or  a  King  Solomon?  I  know 
now.  Of  the  two  of  us  I'm  nigher  to  bein'  the  dum  fool; 
and,  by  the  gracious  king,  you  are  a  King  Solomon." 

Jed  slowly  shook  his  head.  "Sam,"  he  said,  sadly,  "if 
you  knew  what  I  know  about  me  you'd  .  .  .  but  there, 
you're  talkin'  wild.  I  was  cal'latin'  to  have  a  cup  of  tea 
and  you'd  better  have  one,  too.  I'm  heatin'  some  water  on 
top  of  the  stove  now.  It  must  be  about  ready." 

He  lifted  the  saucepan  from  the  top  of  the  "gas  burner" 
and  tested  the  water  with  his  ringer. 

"Hum,"  he  mused,  "it's  stone  cold.  I  can't  see  why  it 
hasn't  het  faster.  I  laid  a  nice  fresh  fire,  too." 

He  opened  the  stove  door  and  looked  in. 

"Hum  .  .  ."  he  said,  again.  "Yes,  yes  ...  I  laid  it 
but,  I — er — hum  ...  I  forgot  to  light  it,  that's  all.  .  .  . 
Well,  that  proves  I'm  King  Solomon  for  sartin.  Probably 
he  did  things  like  that  every  day  or  so.  ...  Give  me  a 
jinatch,  will  you,  Sam?" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IT  had  been  a  chill  morning  in  early  spring  when  Charlie 
Phillips  went  to  Boston  to  enlist.  Now  it  was  a  balmy 
evening  in  August  and  Jed  sat  upon  a  bench  by  his 
kitchen  door  looking  out  to  sea.  The  breeze  was  light, 
barely  sufficient  to  turn  the  sails  of  the  little  mills,  again 
so  thickly  sprinkled  about  the  front  yard,  or  to  cause  the 
wooden  sailors  to  swing  their  paddles.  The  August  moon 
was  rising  gloriously  behind  the  silver  bar  of  the  horizon. 
From  the  beach  below  the  bluff  came  the  light  laughter  of 
a  group  of  summer  young  folk,  strolling  from  the  hotel  to 
the  post-office  by  the  shore  route. 

Babbie,  who  had  received  permission  to  sit  up  and  see 
the  moon  rise,  was  perched  upon  the  other  end  of  the 
bench,  Petunia  in  her  arms.  A  distant  drone,  which  had 
been  audible  for  some  time,  was  gradually  becoming  a 
steady  humming  roar.  A  few  moments  later  and  a  be-, 
lated  hydro-aeroplane  passed  across  the  face  of  the  moon, 
a  dragon-fly  silhouette  against  the  shining  disk. 

"That  bumble-bee's  gettin'  home  late,"  observed  Jed. 
"The  rest  of  the  hive  up  there  at  East  Harniss  have  gone 
to  roost  two  or  three  hours  ago.  Wonder  what  kept  him 
out  this  scandalous  hour.  Had  tire  trouble,  think?" 

Barbara  laughed. 

"You're  joking  again,  Uncle  Jed,"  she  said.  "That  kind 
of  aeroplane  couldn't  have  any  tire  trouble,  'cause  it  hasn't 
got  any  tires." 

Mr.  Winslow  appeared  to  reflect.  "That's  so,"  he  ad 
mitted,  "but  I  don't  know  as  we'd  ought  to  count  too  much 

375 


376  "SHAVINGS" 


on  that.     I  remember  when  Gabe  Bearse  had  brain  fever." 

This  was  a  little  deep  for  Babbie,  whose  laugh  was  some 
what  uncertain.  She  changed  the  subject. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  with  a  wiggle,  "there's  a  caterpillar 
right  here  on  this  bench  with  us,  Uncle  Jed.  He's  a  fuzzy 
one,  too ;  I  can  see  the  fuzz ;  the  moon  makes  it  shiny." 

Jed  bent  over  to  look.  "That?"  he  said.  "That  little, 
tiny  one  ?  Land  sakes,  he  ain't  big  enough  to  be  more  than 
a  kitten-pillar.  You  ain't  afraid  of  him,  are  you?" 

"No-o.  No,  I  guess  I'm  not.  But  I  shouldn't  like  to 
have  him  walk  on  me.  He'd  be  so — so  ticklesome." 

Jed  brushed  the  caterpillar  off  into  the  grass. 

"There  he  goes,"  he  said.  "I've  got  to  live  up  to  my 
job  as  guardian,  I  expect.  Last  letter  I  had  from  your  pa 
he  said  he  counted  on  my  lookin'  out  for  you  and  your 
mamma.  If  he  thought  I  let  ticklesome  kitten-pillars  come 
walkin'  on  you  he  wouldn't  cal'late  I  amounted  to  much." 

For  this  was  the  "trust"  to  which  Major  Grover  had 
referred  in  his  conversation  with  Jed.  Later  he  explained 
his  meaning.  He  was  expecting  soon  to  be  called  to  active 
service  "over  there."  Before  he  went  he  and  Ruth  were 
to  be  married. 

"My  wife  and  Barbara  will  stay  here  in  the  old  house, 
Jed,"  he  said,  "if  you  are  willing.  And  I  shall  leave  them 
in  your  charge.  It's  a  big  trust,  for  they're  pretty  precious 
articles,  but  they'll  be  safe  with  you." 

Jed  looked  at  him  aghast.  "Good  land  of  love !"  he  cried. 
"You  don't  mean  it?" 

"Of  course  I  mean  it.  Don't  look  so  frightened,  man. 
It's  just  what  you've  been  doing  ever  since  they  came  here, 
that's  all.  Ruth  says  she  has  been  going  to  you  for  advice 
since  the  beginning.  I  just  want  her  to  keep  on  doing  it." 

"But — but,  my  soul,  I — I  ain't  fit  to  be  anybody's 
guardian.  .  .  .  I — I  ought  to  have  somebody  guardin'  me. 


"SHAVINGS"  377 


Anybody'll  tell  you  that.  .  .  .  Besides,  I — I  don't 
think " 

"Yes,  you  do ;  and  you  generally  think  right.  Oh,  come, 
don't  talk  any  more  about  it.  It's  a  bargain,  of  course. 
And  if  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  you  on  the  other  side 
I'll  be  only  too  happy  to  oblige." 

Jed  rubbed  his  chin.  "W-e-e-11,"  he  drawled,  "there's  one 
triflin'  thing  I've  been  hankerin'  to  do  myself,  but  I  can't, 
I'm  afraid.  Maybe  you  can  do  it  for  me." 

"All  right,  what  is  the  trifling  thing?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  that — er — Crown  Prince  thing.  Do  him 
brown,  if  you  get  a  chance,  will  you?" 

Of  course,  the  guardianship  was,  in  a  sense,  a  joke,  but 
in  another  it  was  not.  Jed  knew  that  Leonard  Grover's 
leaving  his  wife  and  Babbie  in  his  charge  was,  to  a  certain 
extent,  a  serious  trust.  And  he  accepted  it  as  such. 

"Has  your  mamma  had  any  letters  from  the  major  the 
last  day  or  so?"  he  inquired. 

Babbie  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  said,  "but  she's  ex 
pecting  one  every  day.  And  Petunia  and  I  expect  one,  too, 
and  we're  just  as  excited  about  it  as  we  can  be.  A  letter 
like  that  is  most  par-particklesome  exciting.  .  .  .  No,  I 
don't  mean  particklesome — it  was  the  caterpillar  made  me 
think  of  that.  I  mean  partickle-ar  exciting.  Don't  you 
think  it  is,  Uncle  Jed?" 

Captain  Sam  Hunniwell  came  strolling  around  the  cor 
ner  of  the  shop.  Jed  greeted  him  warmly  and  urged  him 
to  sit  down.  The  captain  declined. 

"Can't  stop,"  he  declared.  "There's  a  letter  for  Maud 
from  Charlie  in  to-night's  mail  and  I  want  to  take  it  home 
to  her.  Letters  like  that  can't  be  held  up  on  the  way,  you 
know." 

Charlie  Phillips,  too,  was  in  France  with  his  regiment 


378  "SHAVINGS" 


"I  presume  likely  you've  heard  the  news  from  Leander 
Babbitt,  Jed?"  asked  Captain  Sam. 

"About  his  bein'  wounded?  Yes,  Gab  flapped  in  at  the 
shop  this  afternoon  to  caw  over  it.  Said  the  telegram  had 
just  come  to  Phineas.  I  was  hopin'  'twasn't  so,  but  Eri 
Hedge  said  he  heard  it,  too.  .  .  .  Serious,  is  it,  Sam?" 

"They  don't  say,  but  I  shouldn't  wonder.  The  boy  was 
hit  by  a  shell  splinter  while  doin'  his  duty  with  exceptional 
bravery,  so  the  telegram  said.  'Twas  from  Washin'ton,  of 
course.  And  there  was  somethin'  in  it  about  his  bein'  rec 
ommended  for  one  of  those  war  crosses." 

Jed  sat  up  straight  on  the  bench.  "You  don't  mean  it !" 
he  cried.  "Well,  well,  well !  Ain't  that  splendid !  I  knew 
he'd  do  it,  too.  'Twas  in  him.  Sam,"  he  added,  solemnly, 
"did  I  tell  you  I  got  a  letter  from  him  last  week?" 

"From  Leander?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  And  before  I  got  it  he  must  have  been 
wounded.  .  .  .  Yes,  sir,  before  I  got  his  letter.  .  .  .  'Twas 
a  good  letter,  Sam,  a  mighty  good  letter.  Some  time  I'll 
read  it  to  you.  Not  a  complaint  in  it,  just  cheerfulness, 
you  know,  and — and  grit  and  confidence,  but  no  brag." 

"I  see.     Well,  Charlie  writes  the  same  way." 

"Ye-es.  They  all  do,  pretty  much.  Well,  how  about 
Phineas?  How  does  the  old  feller  take  the  news?  Have 
you  heard?" 

"Why,  yes,  I've  heard.  Of  course  I  haven't  talked  with 
him.  He'd  no  more  speak  to  me  than  he  would  to  the 
Evil  One." 

Jed's  lip  twitched.  "Why,  probably  not  quite  so  quick, 
Sam,"  he  drawled.  "Phin  ought  to  be  on  pretty  good  terms 
with  the  Old  Scratch.  I've  heard  him  recommend  a  good 
many  folks  to  go  to  him." 

"Ho,  ho !  Yes,  that's  so.  Well,  Jim  Bailey  told  me  that 
.when  Phin  had  read  the  telegram  he  never  said  a  word. 


"SHAVINGS"  379 


Just  got  up  and  walked  into  his  back  shop.  But  Jerry 
Burgess  said  that,  later  on,  at  the  post-office  somebody  said 
somethin'  about  how  Leander  must  be  a  mighty  good 
fighter  to  be  recommended  for  that  cross,  and  Phineas  was 
openin'  his  mail  box  and  heard  'em.  Jerry  says  old  Phin 
turned  and  snapped  out  over  his  shoulder:  'Why  not? 
He's  my  son,  ain't  he?'  So  there  you  are.  Maybe  that's 
pride,  or  cussedness,  or  both.  Anyhow,  it's  Phin  Babbitt." 

As  the  captain  was  turning  to  go  he  asked  his  friend  a 
question. 

"Jed,"  he  asked,  "what  in  the  world  have  you  taken  your 
front  gate  off  the  hinges  for  ?" 

Jed,  who  had  been  gazing  dreamily  out  to  sea  for  the  past 
few  minutes,  started  and  came  to  life. 

"Eh?"  he  queried.     "Did— did  you  speak,  Sam?" 

"Yes,  but  you  haven't  yet.  I  asked  you  what  you  took 
your  front  gate  off  the  hinges  for." 

"Oh,  I  didn't.    I  took  the  hinges  off  the  gate." 

"Well,  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  The  gate's  standin' 
up  alongside  the  fence.  What  did  you  do  it  for  ?" 

Jed  sighed.  "It  squeaked  like  time,"  he  drawled,  "and 
I  had  to  stop  it." 

"So  you  took  the  hinges  off?  Gracious  king!  Why 
didn't  you  ile  'em  so  they  wouldn't  squeak  ?" 

"Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  did  set  out  to,  but  I  couldn't  find  the 
ile  can.  The  only  thing  I  could  find  was  the  screwdriver 
and  at  last  I  came  to  the  conclusion  the  Almighty  must  have 
meant  me  to  use  it;  so  I  did.  Anyhow,  it  stopped  the 
squeakin'." 

Captain  Sam  roared  delightedly.  "That's  fine,"  he  de 
clared.  "It  does  me  good  to  have  you  act  that  way.  You 
haven't  done  anything  so  crazy  as  that  for  the  last  six 
months.  I  believe  the  old  Jed  Winslow's  come  back  again. 
That's  fine." 


380  "SHAVINGS" 


Jed  smiled  his  slow  smile,  "I'm  stickin'  to  my  job, 
Sam,"  he  said. 

"And  grinnin'.     Don't  forget  to  grin,  Jed." 

"W-e-e-11,  when  I  stick  to  my  job,  Sam,  'most  everybody 
grins." 

Babbie  accompanied  the  captain  to  the  place  where  the 
gate  had  been.  Jed,  left  alone,  hummed  a  hymn.  The 
door  of  the  little  house  next  door  opened  and  Ruth  came 
out  into  the  yard. 

"Where  is  Babbie?"  she  asked. 

"She's  just  gone  as  far  as  the  sidewalk  with  Cap'n  Sam 
Hunniwell,"  was  Jed's  reply.  "She's  all  right.  Don't 
jvorry  about  her." 

Ruth  laughed  lightly.  "I  don't,"  she  said.  "I  know  she 
is  all  right  when  she  is  with  you,  Jed." 

Babbie  came  dancing  back.  Somewhere  in  a  distant  part 
of  the  village  a  dog  was  howling  dismally. 

"What  makes  that  dog  bark  that  way,  Uncle  Jed  ?"  asked 
Babbie. 

Jed  was  watching  Ruth,  who  had  walked  to  the  edge  of 
the  bluff  and  was  looking  off  over  the  water,  her  delicate 
face  and  slender  figure  silver-edged  by  the  moonlight. 

"Eh?  .  .  .  That  dog?"  he  repeated.  "Oh,  he's  barkin' 
at  the  moon,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"At  the  moon  ?    Why  does  he  bark  at  the  moon  ?" 

"Oh,  he  thinks  he  wants  it,  I  cal'late.  Wants  it  to  eat 
or  play  with  or  somethin'.  Dogs  get  funny  notions,  some 
times." 

Babbie  laughed.  "I  think  he's  awf'ly  silly,"  she  said. 
"He  couldn't  have  the  moon,  you  know,  could  he?  The 
moon  wasn't  made  for  a  dog." 

Jed,  still  gazing  at  Ruth,  drew  a  long  breath. 

"That's  right,"  he  admitted. 


"SHAVINGS"  381 


The  child  listened  to  the  lugubrious  canine  wails  for  a 
moment ;  then  she  said  thoughtfully :  "I  feel  kind  of  sorry 
for  this  poor  dog,  though.  He  sounds  as  if  he  wanted  the 
moon  just  dreadf'ly." 

"Um  .  .  .  yes  ...  I  presume  likely  he  thinks  he  does. 
But  he'll  feel  better  about  it  by  and  by.  He'll  realize  that, 
same  as  you  say,  the  moon  wasn't  made  for  a  dog.  Just 
as  soon  as  he  comes  to  that  conclusion,  he'll  be  a  whole  lot 
better  dog.  .  .  .  Yes,  and  a  happier  one,  too,"  he  added, 
slowly. 

Barbara  did  not  speak  at  once  and  Jed  began  to  whistle 
a  doleful  melody.  Then  the  former  declared,  with  empha 
sis:  "I  think  some  dogs  are  awf'ly  nice." 

"Um?  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  Oh,  you  do,  eh?" 

She  snuggled  close  to  him  on  the  bench. 

"I  think  you're  awf'ly  nice,  too,  Uncle  Jed,"  she  con 
fided. 

Jed  looked  down  at  her  over  his  spectacles. 

"Sho !  .  .  .  Bow,  wow !"  he  observed. 

Babbie  burst  out  laughing.  Ruth  turned  and  came 
toward  them  over  the  dew-sprinkled  grass. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at,  dear  ?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Jed  was  so  funny.  He  was  barking  like  a 
dog." 

Ruth  smiled.  "Perhaps  he  feels  as  if  he  were  our  watch 
dog,  Babbie,"  she  said.  "He  guards  us  as  if  he  were." 

Babbie  hugged  her  back-step-uncle's  coat  sleeve. 

"He's  a  great,  big,  nice  old  watchdog,"  she  declared.  "We 
love  him,  don't  we,  Mamma?" 

Jed  turned  his  head  to  listen. 

"Hum  .  .  ."  he  drawled.  "That  dog  up  town  has  stopped 
his  howlin'.  Perhaps  he's  beginnin'  to  realize  what  a  lucky 
critter  he  is." 


382  "SHAVINGS" 


As  usual,  Babbie  was  ready  with  a  question. 
"Why  is  he  lucky,  Uncle  Jed?"  she  asked. 
"Why?     Oh,  well,  he  ...  he  can  look  at  the  moon,  and 
that's  enough  to  make  any  dog  thankful." 

(8) 


THE  END 


A     000816451     9 


